Doomed to Die: The 9th Hunger Games (SYOT)
by Elim9
Summary: As the first decade of Hunger Games nears its end, the Games are truly starting to take shape. Patterns are set, arenas become more complex, and Gamemakers are more ruthless. Tributes are beginning to realize exactly what it takes to survive. But there are still a few surprises waiting for them. Welcome to the 9th Annual Hunger Games! T for violence only. *CLOSED SYOT*
1. Prologue: A Red Sun Rises

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games.

* * *

**Doomed to Die: The 9****th**** Hunger Games**

**Prologue, Part I  
A Red Sun Rises**

President Richmond Hyde stood watching a crimson sunrise over the mountains, taking in one moment of peace and stillness. Away from duty. Away from politics. Away from the swarming masses of people in need of control.

The serenity of the moment was short-lived, however. It was interrupted by Head Gamemaker Helius Florum, an excitable, twitchy little man who came bumbling – and limping slightly – across the plains. "Mr. President!" Florum exclaimed. "Welcome! So glad you could make it! We're almost ready; it's going to be such an exciting year!" The chubby little man stopped to catch his breath. "What do you think?"

Hyde nodded approvingly. Florum had his peculiarities, but there was no denying his skill. To the north was an icy expanse as far as the eye could see – and probably farther. In front of them, the mountains stretched off to the left and right, with several paths that appeared to lead across, and a few cave-like entrances to the labyrinth within. To their right lay a grassy plain, littered with boulders that could provide shelter – or conceal an ambush. Behind the president, waves crashed against a rocky shore.

"You've outdone yourself, Helius," Hyde conceded. It was Florum's fifth year as Head Gamemaker, and this year's arena combined all of the elements that had made the previous four years a success, after the shaky start to the Games headed by Florum's predecessor.

Florum grinned and plopped down on a nearby boulder, stretching his right leg, which seemed oddly bruised. "Oh, nothing to worry about," he assured Hyde, noticing the president's curiosity. "Just had a few glitches while we were programming the forest; it's all worked out now."

"Forest?" Hyde asked, glancing around. "Were you programming it to be invisible?"

Florum laughed heartily. "Oh, no, not at all. You just can't see it from here. In fact, there's a lot that you can't see from the starting point. If I could interest you in a hovercraft ride, you could see it all."

"Quite all right," Hyde shuddered. Hovercrafts. He still didn't trust the things. "I'm sure seeing it onscreen will suffice."

Florum shrugged. "Suit yourself. You'll be in for a few surprises, then."

Hyde nodded. "I can live with that." He looked around. "There's something else that seems to be missing – besides your forest, that is." He gestured to the twenty-four platforms behind him. "I assume they enter here … But where's the cornucopia?"

Florum giggled. "Unless I can change your mind about that ride … you'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

**Tribute List**

**District One**

Male: Angus Spencer (13) _QuietConspiracy_

Female: Abstract Calls (18) _Starry-eyed dreamer__86_

**District Two**

Male: Equinox Kunzite (16) _xDisgraceful Avengerx_

Female: Kiona Brink (18) _bobothebear_

**District Three**

Male: Tracer Norren (18) _M__unamana_

Female: Rosalina "Lina" Leto (15) _LunarLionHeart_

**District Four**

Male: Mars Servitt (18) _afterl0ve  
_

Female: Ella Halliwell (17) _Aileen's feather_

**District Five**

Male: Harakuise Swallot (14) _seventhquill907_

Female: Aubrei "Brie" Fallyn (17) _x FallingAshes x__  
_

**District Six**

Male: Pike Carter (12) _Starry-eyed dreamer__86_

Female: Prius Gazer (16) _bobothebear_

**District Seven**

Male: Sterling Therms (18) _QuietConspiracy_

Female: Cahra Sheed (14) _PennytheMonsterBringer__  
_

**District Eight**

Male: Zione Carlin (18) _bobothebear_

Female: Nicoline Peters (13) _torystory93_

**District Nine**

Male: Husk Fange (16) _TheTypeWriter001_

Female: Antiquity Kirsh (14) _xDisgraceful Avengerx_

**District Ten**

Male: Wulfric Harding (18) _DeuceExMachina_

Female: Elibrium "Libby" Hall (15) _TheTypeWriter001_

**District Eleven**

Male: Sher Haimish (17) _BecauseofKillianJones_

Female: Lordez Miller (17) _MidnightRaven323_

**District Twelve**

Male: Aldo Retchwood (16) _BananasInLoungewear_

Female: Heloise Cache (12) _torystory93_

* * *

**Note: **I will not be running a sponsorship system. However, the following things will help your tributes' chances of survival.

**1. **Tributes who are intriguing and unique - with plenty of background, quirks, and flaws - are more fun to write (and to read) and therefore tend to last longer. (Of course, some of them still have to die, but fascinating characters also make for more memorable deaths.)

**2. ** Reviews let me know who's actually reading the story and who just submitted the same tribute they've already submitted to two dozen different SYOTs. Guess whose tribute will last longer.

**3. **On a similar note, _constructive_ criticism is especially appreciated. Please note, however, that repeatedly begging me to let your tribute win is _not_ constructive; it's annoying, and will likely have the opposite effect.

**4. **Once all the tributes have been introduced, I will have a poll on my profile page that will let you vote for your favorites. This does _not_ mean that the most well-liked character is guaranteed to win. However, it certainly won't hurt their chances. (Please note that this will not happen until _all_ of the tributes have been introduced in-story; I don't want to give an unfair advantage to the ones who happen to be the first to appear.)


	2. There is No Victory

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Hunger Games.

**Note: **Thank you to _t__orystory93_ and _dreamgazer86 _for Lander and Hazel, respectively.

* * *

**Prologue, Part II  
There is No Victory**

* * *

**Mags  
****Mentor, District Four  
****Victor of the 8****th**** Hunger Games****  
**

Safe.

It was still a strange feeling, being safe. All across the district, the other girls and boys her age were preparing. Worrying. Dreading this day. Some of them were older than her. Some were younger. Some were her friends. Yet she was safe, and they were not.

Mags pushed the thought aside as she chose a floor-length, blue-grey dress from her closet. She had _earned_ her safety. Bought it with the blood of other tributes, with the deafening screams of the four she had lured to their deaths in the river.

No. No, she didn't want to think about that. She was safe now. Safe from the reaping. Safe from the Games. They had done their worst, but they couldn't hurt her any more.

She would never have to fight again. Never have to kill again. Never be in an arena again.

She was safe.

* * *

**Jade  
Mentor, District One  
Victor of the 7th Hunger Games**

They had begun to follow his lead.

Well, _her_ lead, really, because she had been his inspiration. The first volunteer. The first to see the Games for what they truly were – not a sentence, but an opportunity. At only ten years old, Jade had known she was right.

So he had followed. Trained. Volunteered. And won. Volunteers were more popular with the Capitol. Sponsors had flocked to him, given him everything he had needed. His victory hadn't come easily, but he had never truly doubted that it would come.

And now others were learning. He had seen them, at the schools, in the streets. Practicing. Training. He had inspired them. He was District One's first victor, but more would follow. And quickly. Maybe even this year.

Something new was beginning. A pattern. And they would all point to him as an example.

But he would point to her.

* * *

**Lander  
****Mentor, District Eight  
****Victor of the 6****th**** Hunger Games****  
**

"Would you like some more eggs?" the little maid asked.

Lander looked up with an icy stare, and the young girl took a few steps back. She had that look on her face again. The one that reminded him of the little girl from District Ten. The twelve-year-old he had killed as she stood in horror, watching the bloodbath, too scared to move. Blood. It was all he could think of when he saw her.

"Yes," he nodded. "And bacon. Hot and sizzling. I want it to scream while you're roasting it alive." Screaming like the two tributes who hadn't been as fast as him, who had been swallowed up by the lava bubbling across the arena. Screaming. Burning. Dying.

The girl hurried off, and Lander quietly scolded himself. It was reaping day. The girl was probably scared enough.

But she should be. She should be scared. They should all be scared.

Because if _he_ was still scared, they had no right not to be.

* * *

**Tania  
Mentor, District Five  
Victor of the 5th Hunger Games**

Cold.

Tania pulled her blanket closer around her, her eyes shut tight. Maybe if she refused to get out of bed, they would delay the reaping. Maybe she could stall. Buy the children a little more time with each other, before two of them were ripped from their families – probably forever.

No. No, that would be worse. They were already gathering. Already waiting. And the waiting was worse. The waiting was always worse. Better to have it over with. Better to spring the trap. If it was going to happen anyway, it may as well happen quickly.

She dressed in a warm sweater, despite the heat. She always felt cold now. The same cold that had haunted her for days in the caves as she waited. Waited for them to find her, so that she could pounce. Always trapping them first, like a spider. She had been no match for them physically, but her traps had saved her life. Even a starved, frightened girl with a knife could slit the throat of an opponent who was dangling helplessly from a rope.

She had tried to make it quick. But the only way to do that was to spill more blood. And their blood had been warm. Warm as it had gushed over her, staining her skin and hair. Her hair, which she had dyed red afterwards, because it felt right. She would never truly be rid of the blood, anyway, so she might as well admit it.

She hadn't truly felt warm ever since.

* * *

**Glenn  
Mentor, District Ten  
Victor of the 4th Hunger Games**

Glenn still wished they would just ignore him.

That was how he made it through the Games, after all. They'd forgotten all about him – the other two. They'd ignored the quiet, pudgy boy from District Ten because he wasn't a threat. They had wounded each other, badly, and each was trying to outlast the other. They'd forgotten they also had to outlast him.

He had been on the other side of the arena when the cannons sounded, one shortly after the other. Then the announcement, proclaiming him the victor. He had never fought. Never killed. He had simply gone unnoticed.

No one had made that mistake again. Tributes now kept a close count of how many others were left. It was a trick that could only work once. But once had been enough to save his life.

Glenn was a joke to the other victors, but, to his district, he was a hero. The only one they had. Everyone loved him. Everyone knew him. Everyone remembered him.

All he wanted was to forget.

* * *

**Hazel  
****Mentor, District Seven  
****Victor of the 3****rd**** Hunger Games****  
**

This year would be different. This year, they wouldn't die.

Well, that was only half true. One of them would die. But not both of them. Not this time. She wouldn't let it.

Hazel brushed the tears from her eyes. She had been given a gift. An unspeakable gift. She was alive, against all odds, against all reason. Saved by a friend and spared by a stranger, she had survived the arena.

But for what? What good was it if she was still powerless to save the others? The ten tributes – five girls and five boys – who had died, despite her best efforts. She had failed them. Failed them all.

She would not fail again.

* * *

**Ivy  
Mentor, District Eleven  
Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games**

It had sounded so easy.

Win, and you were showered with boundless riches. Win, and you would never want for anything. Win, and your life would be perfect. The war had taken everything – her family, her friends, her home. She'd had nothing. Nothing to lose. And everything to gain. And so, at the age of sixteen, Ivy had become the Hunger Games' very first volunteer.

And it had been easy – almost too easy. The arena that year was simple. Unimaginative. A wide open plain, grassy, with no cover. While the others had scrambled around, looking for a place to hide, she had already grabbed what she needed from the Cornucopia. Armed with a crossbow and a deadly patience, she had hidden in the tall grass and taken them out one by one.

They had given her everything they had promised. Everything she had wanted as a small child, everything they had never been able to afford. But they had also given her the burden. The names. The children. The boy who had volunteered four years ago – not for riches and glory, but so his little brother could live. The girl last year who had been blinded in the war. The two children who were about to be chosen. The Capitol had given them all to her keeping.

Ivy flung another dart at the wall, skewering a picture of last year's tributes. She hated the way they looked back at her. The blame. The waste. Now she understood.

Winning the Games had been the easy part.

* * *

**Vester  
****Mentor, District Two  
****Victor of the 1****st**** Hunger Games****  
**

Another year. Another lie.

It was all a lie. His victory. His life. Vester's victory had never been his own. It had all been for the Capitol's benefit – to have a young man who had fought on the Capitol's side during the rebellion as their first champion. A final victory of their war.

He knew it. Everyone knew it. Some of them loved him for it. Some of them hated him. It didn't matter.

Another year. Two more tributes. Two more deaths, and all on his hands. He had fought for this. Cheered when the Rebels had surrendered. Saved his most brutal kills in the arena for the tributes who he suspected had been children of Rebels, or even soldiers themselves. He had been exactly what the Capitol wanted him to be.

From his window, Vester watched the children gathering in the square. This was his victory. His reward.

He wanted no part of it.

* * *

_"You may triumph on the field for a day. But against the Power that now arises there is no victory." _


	3. District One: Show Them No Mercy

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

**Note:** Thank you to everyone who's submitted a tribute. (Or, in some cases, several.) It sounds corny to say this story couldn't happen without you, but the sheer number of SYOT stories that fizzle out due to lack of tributes are proof that it's true, nonetheless.

**Those of you who have submitted tributes**, keep an eye out for potential allies for your tribute(s) as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good fit. (I ask you to PM me with this instead of reviewing just in case the reason you _want_ the alliance is because you think your tribute can manipulate/betray the other party.) Not that _every_ alliance you want will happen – I've already got some ideas of my own – but I'll definitely take your suggestions into consideration, especially if both parties send me a request for the same alliance.

A particular thank you to _QuietConspiracy _and _Starry-eyed dreamer86_ for providing Angus and Abstract, respectively.

* * *

**District One Reaping  
****Show Them No Mercy****  
**

* * *

**Jade  
****Mentor, District One****  
**

Jade smiled at the crowd as he took his seat beside the mayor. Was District One's next victor out there? Would they take the stage today? He knew several who were training, but most would need a few more years. Not everyone was confident enough to volunteer at sixteen, as he had. And surely none of the twelve or thirteen year olds would be cocky enough to volunteer yet. Despite its name, the Hunger Games wasn't a game. It was life and death.

The mayor gave a speech. Read Jade's name – the only victor. So far. Soon, that list would grow, Jade was sure. Maybe even this year. Maybe…

Blache Rosemaroon – their escort – stepped forward, flashing Jade a smile as she passed. Two years ago, she had been overjoyed when he had volunteered, absolutely thrilled because he looked like he stood a chance of winning. Now, he knew, she was hoping for a repeat performance.

So was he. Last year had been dreadful. The girl had been killed in the bloodbath. The boy had made it to the final six, only to be drowned in a river, of all things, lured to his death by the girl from Four. Hopefully, this year's tributes would be more promising.

"Ladies first!" Blanche announced, and drew a piece of paper from the bowl. She seemed to take forever to unfold it. "Garnette Morand."

Murmurs from the fourteen-year-old section were silenced by a swift, "I volunteer!" A girl stepped out of the eighteen-year-old section. Jade recognized her, though he didn't know her name. He'd seen her training, passed her occasionally as she ran. She was tall, lean, agile. Confident as she took the stage, facing the crowd with deep brown eyes, her long, black curls bouncing as she walked. Her dress was a deep red. Blood-red. Jade smiled, glad he hadn't waited until he was eighteen to volunteer. He wouldn't have wanted her as an opponent.

"And what's your name?" Blanche grinned, and Jade knew she was thinking the same thing: Was this District One's second victor?

"Abstract Calls," the girl answered confidently.

"Excellent!" Blanche gushed. "And now for the boys!" She drew a second slip of paper. "Angus Spencer!"

The back of the thirteen-year-old section parted to allow a small boy through. He was pale, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Jade had seen him occasionally, training with other boys his age, but he certainly didn't appear ready. Wouldn't have volunteered on his own – not for a few more years, at least. Not that he had any choice now.

Barely over five feet tall, the boy didn't look any older than eleven. His pinstripe pants, suit vest, and fedora had probably been meant to look impressive, but, on someone so young, they were almost comical. He certainly didn't appear a threat.

But then Angus smiled. Jade raised an eyebrow as the boy drew closer. There was an odd excitement in his eyes. Angus took his place next to Abstract without any hesitation. Jade's smile returned. The boy was young, but at least he wasn't afraid. Wasn't screaming or crying or trying to escape, like so many other reapings he had watched.

"Shake hands!" Blanche grinned. Abstract held out her hand, and Angus took it, grinning. But then another expression came over the boy's face. Realization. The boy froze, staring at his hand, which was gripping Abstract's tightly.

It was several minutes before they could convince him to let go.

* * *

**Abstract Calls  
****District One Female****  
**

Abstract slid Mosaic's ring onto her finger. She'd found it in his room six years ago. He'd meant to give it to Sparkle, of course, but Abstract had kept it, instead. It was a reminder – a reminder of the years Mosaic could have had. The happiness he could have had, if not for the Games.

Her mother came in, trying hard not to look upset. Abstract knew she hadn't wanted her to volunteer. But there had been no point in arguing about it, and it was no use now. It was done. She couldn't take it back now even if she wanted to.

But she didn't want to. This was all she had wanted since her brother's death. She would enter the Games. And win. For him. She would beat the Capitol at their own game. They had taken Mosaic. They had taken her father. But they would not take her.

Her mother sat down beside her. They didn't say much. At last, her mother spoke, quietly, nearly a whisper. "Just … promise I'll see you again."

Abstract didn't hesitate. "I promise." She had no doubt she could win. Mosaic had almost won, after all, and he hadn't had her training. He'd come close. So close. But he'd made a fatal mistake – he'd spared a younger girl from District Seven, hadn't been able to bring himself to kill her. And he'd paid the price for his pity.

Abstract took her mother's hand. "I promise," she repeated. She wouldn't make the same mistake. No pity. All of them had to die in order for her to win, so it might as well be by her hand. Even the little boy who had refused to let go of her hand earlier. As soon as he crossed her path in the arena, he was dead.

* * *

**Angus Spencer  
****District One Male****  
**

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Angus smiled as he set the soap aside and dried his hands.

Better. Much better.

The Peacekeepers stood watching, confused. That was all right. People were always confused by greatness. Of course they wouldn't understand. He had to keep himself clean. Especially after something like the reaping. So, before his family could come to say goodbye, Angus had insisted that they let him wash his hands.

They escorted him to a room, where he was quickly joined by his parents. "You know there won't necessarily be a place for you to wash your hands in the arena," his mother observed coldly.

Angus nodded. Of course he knew. That was the worst part. Everything else, he could handle, eagerly. He'd been training. He was good with a dagger, and was starting to learn how to handle a sword. He would have preferred to wait a few years before entering the Games, but he was still confident.

Of course he was confident. He was the best. Better than anyone else he had trained against. Probably better than the girl who had volunteered.

Yes, definitely better than her. Of course he was better. He could kill her easily. And he would. He would kill them all, with a smile on his face, savoring their screams. Yes. He was definitely the best.

If only he could find a way to keep his hands clean.

* * *

_"Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none."_


	4. District Two: Pride and Despair

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is still not mine.

**Note: **Since more than one person has asked ... I'm going to aim for updating roughly twice a week – probably once around the middle of the week and once on the weekend. This is, of course, subject to real life. If I'm particularly swamped with work, I may not be able to update mid-week. If I'm feeling particularly inspired, updates may be more frequent. But, for right now, twice a week is my intention.

Also, some people seem to have had problems trying to review this chapter. This happened because there was previously a Chapter Four that became Chapter Three when I deleted Chapter Two (which was the submission form). So, in other words, this shouldn't be a problem after this chapter.

Thank you to _xDisgraceful Avengerx _and _bobothebear_ for Equinox and Kiona, respectively.

* * *

**District Two Reaping  
****Pride and Despair**

* * *

**Vester  
****Mentor, District Two****  
**

Vester gritted his teeth as the mayor read the treaty. The treaty he had fought for. Had been willing to give his life for. The treaty that, once again, would deliver two children into his hands, and at least one of them to certain death. Probably both. Seven years, he'd been a mentor. Fourteen tributes. All dead.

Why should this year be any different?

Merrill Perlimpet rose, grinning, and plunged his hand into the bowl containing the girls' names. He seemed to take forever to pick one, stirring the papers casually, somehow not caring that life and death depended on which way his hand moved. Finally, he removed one of the slips. "Kiona Brink!"

For a few moments, there was nothing. No sign of where this girl might be. Vester tried hard to keep himself from shaking his head. Wherever this Kiona was, she wasn't doing herself any favors by trying to hide. Trying to disappear.

A Peacekeeper made her way to the eighteen-year-old section, and the crowd parted as she approached a tall, solidly built girl. Vester saw the girl shake her head. She was arguing with the Peacekeeper. Did she really think playing dumb would help?

Apparently not. As the Peacekeeper turned to summon her coworkers, the girl delivered a blow to the back of the Peacekeeper's neck and took off, shoving her way through the younger children, who, startled, gave way for her.

The girl had almost made it through the fourteen-year-old section when she was caught by two Peacekeepers, who dragged her firmly to the stage. Resigned at last, she took her place, but a smoldering fire lingered in her deep brown eyes.

"My, what a lively tribute!" Merrill offered, trying to make the best of a bad situation. Vester couldn't help smiling a little. 'Lively' was an understatement – the girl had an almost wild look about her. Her beautiful velvet dress was torn from her tussle with the Peacekeepers, and strands of her dirty blonde hair had come loose from her bun and now hung about her face. Maybe she hadn't made the best first impression with the audience by trying to run, but no one could deny that she had spirit.

At last, Merrill recovered. "And now for the boys." He stirred the other bowl for what seemed like hours before selecting the next victim. "Equinox Kunzite!"

In a jarring contrast to the silence that had followed Kiona's name, there was a sudden burst of roaring laughter. Vester stared, scanning the crowd. Who would be cruel enough to laugh at a tribute during the reaping?

But, as a tall, limber boy emerged from the sixteen-year-old section, Vester realized that the laughter had come from the tribute himself. The boy was still laughing as he took the stage, his grey-green eyes glaring fiercely at the crowd despite his apparent amusement. The boy was frighteningly pale, his strawberry-blonde hair spiked near the front.

Then, just as abruptly as it had started, his laughing stopped, and his face settled into a stern, cold glare. Distant. Unfeeling. Uncaring.

The two tributes shook hands, but not eagerly. Vester could see in their eyes that they already understood – one of them would have to die.

But maybe not both. For the first time in years, Vester allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, District Two could have its first true victor.

* * *

**Kiona Brink  
****District Two Female****  
**

It could have worked. Would have worked, if not for that Peacekeeper – the one who had taken her blood before the reaping. Not many people knew her, much less knew her name. Kiona made a point of laying low. Staying hidden. It was the best way to bury the past.

But now the only way out was to fight. Kill. And the worst part was, she knew she could. She had done it before. It had been years, but the memories were still fresh. The last years of the rebellion. Wanting to help her family in any way she could. Playing the helpless, innocent nine-year-old long enough for the Peacekeepers to come closer.

Close enough to drive a knife into their gut.

Kiona tossed the necklace her foster parents had given her across the room. They had actually been foolish enough to believe she would accept it as her district token. But they weren't her parents. They were the enemy. Capitol supporters, like so many in District Two. So different from her real parents. Her real brother and sister. Her sister, Amphrite, who had given Kiona her real district token – a red hairpin in the shape of a butterfly.

She didn't even know how they had died. They had been separated in a bombing, and she had been taken by Peacekeepers, given to a different family. But she had no doubt her real family was dead. Long dead, like the rest of the rebels. Killed. Slaughtered. Murdered.

No. No, that wouldn't help. Anger wouldn't help her now. Hatred wouldn't help her. Kiona took a few deep breaths, burying her anger once more. She would have to be careful. Very careful.

Because if the Capitol learned what she had done in the past, she would never make it home.

* * *

**Equinox Kunzite  
****District Two Male****  
**

He wasn't crazy.

That was what they would all think, of course, listening to him laughing. Crazy. Unbalanced. Dangerous.

The last one was true, of course. He was dangerous. Dangerous to the other tributes in the arena. Deadly.

Equinox fingered the small, empty flask his mother had given him. She had actually come to say goodbye, which was a surprise. Not that it mattered. She was drunk, even more so than usual. She certainly hadn't intended to give him a district token. For all she knew, he could be going to the moon.

Maybe when he got back, he could move to the Victor's Village without her. She certainly wouldn't notice the difference – except that the house would be quieter, and there would be no one to fight with. She would get used to it.

She would get used to it either way. Win or lose. Live or die. There was no difference, really – which was why he had laughed. He wasn't crazy. He simply saw more clearly than they did, how pathetic their little lives were. It didn't matter. Didn't make any difference at all, in the end. Which was what made him dangerous.

He had nothing to lose.

* * *

"_Pride and despair! Nay, I have seen more than thou knowest … For thy hope is but ignorance."_


	5. District Three: A Stout Heart

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **As you have probably noticed, since this is one of the earlier Games, not all districts have a victor yet. From the stories I've read, it seems to be standard practice for districts that don't have a mentor yet to be assigned one by the Capitol. So that's what I'm going with. Here's the first one...

Thank you to _Munamana_ and _LunarLionHeart _for Tracer and Lina, respectively.

* * *

**District Three Reaping  
****A Stout Heart****  
**

* * *

**Mayberry Florence  
****Mentor, District Three****  
**

It was nearly impossible to breathe.

That was the one thing Mayberry always remembered about her trips to District Three. The air was thick with smoke from the factories, clouding the skies even when the sun should have been shining. She coughed violently, wondering what had possessed her eight years ago when she had volunteered to mentor this district.

Only a few years, they had told her. Only until the district had a victor of its own. Then they would take over her position. But, after eight years, no tribute from District Three had even come _close_ to victory. And how could they, after living in these conditions?

No, she would be here a long time. Looking out through the smoky air at the sickly, tired-looking crowd, Mayberry sighed. She had already watched the reapings from the first two districts. Their tributes had looked strong, or, at the very least, healthy. Here? The best she could hope for was that they wouldn't be bawling their eyes out like last year's tributes.

At last, the mayor finished his speech, and District Three's escort, Rickell Maston, stood. Mayberry at least forced a smile, but Rickell, as usual, was all business. He wasted no time; he simply reached into the bowl and snatched the first piece of paper he saw at the top of the pile. "Rosalina Leto!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted to reveal a young girl who was everything Mayberry had come to expect from this district: grey. She wore a grey blouse, a darker grey skirt, and grey ballet pumps that had probably once been black. But they, like everything in this district, had faded. Her skin was pale and sickly, and, though she looked a bit more well-fed that some of the previous tributes, she was still a far cry from the healthy young boys and girls in the well-off districts.

The girl walked quietly to the stage, her short chestnut hair hiding most of her face. As she took the stage, however, Mayberry could see that her eyes, unlike the rest of her, were bright – a bright sky blue. But not bright with tears. Mayberry tried not to sigh. "Confident" was too much to hope for, so "emotionless" was about as good as she was going to get.

Rickell moved on to the boys' bowl. Just as quickly as before, he reached in, chose a slip of paper, and unfolded it. "Tracer Norren!"

The eighteen-year-old section made way for a taller boy in grey work clothes. Mayberry held back a sniff of distaste. The boy could at least bother _trying_ to look appropriate. Didn't he know the entire Capitol was watching?

Aside from that, however, the boy looked like he might be among the more promising tributes she had mentored. He was tall and lean, not as frail as she'd come to expect from this district. His skin was darker than the girl's – not exactly tan, but far from pale and sickly. Conflicting emotions flashed across his face as he made his way to the stage, but, by the time he took his place next to the girl, his fear was under control, and his pale blue eyes were trying to give off a casual look.

It wasn't quite working, but it was still better than crying.

Rickell hadn't even told them to shake hands yet when the girl held out her hand. Mayberry smiled a little. There was something to be said for tributes who didn't have to be told to be polite. But politeness wouldn't save her in the arena. And although these two were certainly better than last year's pair, neither one really looked like they would stand a chance against the healthier, stronger tributes in other districts.

Mayberry sighed and resigned herself to the fact that she would be returning to District Three the next year.

* * *

**Lina Leto  
****District Three Female****  
**

It had finally happened.

Lina held her older brother, Kraden, close as her two younger brothers, Elijah and Yadon, clung to her waist. When Kraden had made it safely through seven years of the reaping, she had begun to hope that maybe they had been overlooked. Maybe her family would be spared.

But now they were paying the price. Because it wasn't merely chance. It couldn't be. For years now, there had been whispers. Rumors that the reapings were rigged, that children of rebels were more likely to be picked. Lina had always wondered if that could be true. It seemed cruel, but, really, was it any more cruel than forcing twenty-four children to fight to the death in the first place?

Her parents hadn't been involved in the rebellion; they'd had children to think of, after all. But her uncle Viribius had been one of the rebel leaders in District Three. He was long gone, of course; he had "disappeared" in the aftermath of the rebellion. But the Capitol wouldn't be content to merely punish him.

Yes. Yes, that had to be it. And they'd been so clever, too – waiting until Kraden was safe, ensuring that he couldn't volunteer in the hopes of protecting her. They'd arranged it all. Just to punish her family for something her uncle had already paid for himself.

Lina looked down at the ring her parents had given her – her mother's wedding ring. Two roses twisted around the outside, and an inscription inside read, "My dearest Diana, may this ring always protect you even if I can't. Percy."

Lina slipped the ring on her finger. It wouldn't protect her. It couldn't. The Capitol had already marked her for death. Hand-picked her for the arena.

She would try her hardest to survive, of course, just like anyone would. But if they truly wanted her dead, what hope did she have?

* * *

**Tracer Norren  
****District Three Male****  
**

"They have no idea why you really wanted the watch, do they."

Tracer shook his head. His mother and older brother Marx had already left, and now Enrik had come to say goodbye to his apprentice.

"I figured it was better not to tell them," Tracer admitted. Better not to admit to his family that the reason he'd asked for his father's old pocket watch was because he thought it might be useful for spare parts in the arena.

But Enrik understood. They had always seen eye to eye, ever since Enrik had caught Tracer loitering outside his workshop and offered to let him help with a little soldering he didn't have time to do himself. Enrik had a bit of a reputation for oddness, but, by that time, Tracer had been willing to take any work he could get.

As it had turned out, he had a knack for taking things apart, putting them back together, and understanding how to get them to work – even if he didn't always understand _why_ they worked that way. "Why" was somebody else's job. His was to make it work, to get the job done by whatever means he could. And that's what he would have to do now.

His father would have understood. Would have wanted his son to come home to his family by any means – even if it meant taking apart an old watch. And maybe it wouldn't be any help, in the end, but it was one more tool he could work with. One more option he had, in a pinch. One more thing that _might_ save his life. And he needed all the help he could get.

But he still wondered if it would be enough.

* * *

"_You have a stout heart … but that will not save you."_


	6. District Four: Time Cannot Mend

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games still isn't mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies for your tribute as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good fit.

Thank you to _afterl0ve _and _Aileen's Feather_ for Mars and Ella, respectively.

* * *

**District Four Reaping  
****Time Cannot Mend****  
**

* * *

**Mags  
****Mentor, District Four****  
**

The chair felt too large.

Mags sat beside the mayor and Floressa Meverance, still in a bit of a daze. This was real. After eight years of watching Quintellus Yemera – District Four's old mentor – onstage, now it was her. Her job. Her responsibility to keep her tributes – or one of them, at least – alive. To bring them home.

So she smiled, a little. For the cameras. It was all she could do at the moment, but it was something. A confident mentor was something she could give them. Something that could be in their favor, even when the odds weren't. She was here. They were here. So she intended to make the best of it.

After all, making the best of bad situations had gotten her through the Games. Maybe it could help them, too.

Mags was surprised to feel a surge of pride as the mayor read her name – the first victor from District Four. Maybe she should feel guilty, but for what? For being alive? For doing what she had to do? She wasn't proud of killing. But, right or wrong, she was proud of surviving. Maybe there was a difference. Maybe not.

Maybe the world was so upside-down that it didn't matter. Maybe it was better not to try to make sense of it.

Either way, her name was the first on the list. And no matter how many others followed, for better or worse, her name would always be the first.

Floressa rose, beaming, and dipped a hand into the first bowl. Mags clutched the arms of her chair, waiting. Floressa picked a slip, unfolded it, and read, "Ella Halliwell!"

The seventeen-year-old section backed away from a girl with long, golden blonde hair and a bright blue dress. The girl didn't bother to try to hide the look of shock on her face. As Mags watched, shock turned to terror and anger. Tears were flowing down the girl's face as she walked to the stage, but she didn't try to hide them. She held her head high, and, for a moment, her eyes turned to Mags.

Well, eye, at least. Her left eye was hidden beneath her bangs, but her right was a wild, dark brown. Mags tried her best at a reassuring smile, hoping the girl would take a hint and do the same – pretend for the sake of the audience that she wasn't scared out of her wits.

The girl shook her head, still crying as she took the stage. Mags shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not sure what to do. She glanced at Floressa, who seemed a bit flustered, as well. Quietly, Mags reached into her pocket, drew out a handkerchief, and approached the girl.

The girl dried her eyes, brushing the hair away from her left, which Mags could now see was a bright blue. "Thank you," the girl said, but made no apology and no attempt to smile as she turned back to the audience.

Mags took her seat again, trying to reassure herself. She hadn't made such a great impression at her own reaping, tripping on her way to the stage in shoes that had been too big for her. She had recovered. The girl could, too.

Floressa dipped a hand in the other bowl and pulled out a name. "Ri—"

"I volunteer!" came a loud shout from the eighteen-year-old section, and a tall, muscular boy with dirty blonde hair stepped forward. He was tan, and wore a white collared shirt that had been hastily – and somewhat messily – tucked into his grey suit pants. But what Mags noticed first was his scar, running from his left eyebrow, across his nose, to the right side of his mouth.

Mags resisted the urge to turn away. No. No, that wouldn't help. This boy's life was in her hands. She owed it to him to be able to look at him.

He took the stage quietly, his ice blue eyes fierce and cold. "And what's your name?" Floressa asked cheerily, not even bothered that he hadn't let her finish the first boy's name.

"Mars Servitt," the boy answered, his voice strangely empty. Mags hoped her confusion didn't show on her face. Didn't he realize what he'd just volunteered for? He had volunteered before hearing the other boy's name, so he had been planning on volunteering, regardless. But he wasn't eager. Just … absent.

Floressa wasn't fazed. "Shake hands, you two!" she grinned.

Neither looked pleased, but the girl held out her hand. That's when Mags noticed the girl's finger.

Or, rather, that her right hand only had four.

* * *

**Ella Halliwell  
****District Four Female****  
**

Don't panic.

Don't panic, Ella told herself again. Relax. Breathe. Hold still.

So she held still as her mother slid her hair back away from her eyes and fastened it in a hair clip. Nothing fancy. Just practical. Very much like her mother – a schoolteacher, trying to put on a brave face even though her world was falling apart.

Ella had never bothered trying to put on a brave face. Anyone with sense would be scared. And anyone with sense knew the tributes were scared. And the people without sense … well, who cared what they thought, anyway?

Don't panic.

That was the worst part, knowing that she might lose control. Again. The first time, at work, it had cost her a finger. Her finger had gotten caught in one of her fishing traps. She had been alone. Hadn't known what to do. So fear had taken over, and she'd grabbed a knife and started hacking at the trap. And slipped. And then … well, at least her finger hadn't been trapped any more.

That was years ago, but the thought still terrified her – knowing that it might happen again. That she might not be able to control herself.

Her parents held her close until the Peacekeepers came. Then she was alone. Alone with her fear. Fear that she would panic and do something stupid.

Or worse.

* * *

**Mars Servitt  
****District Four Male****  
**

It should have been him.

Mars fingered his sister's silver bracelet, which she had worn to her death in the Games. It should have been him. Not her. He should be dead. She should be here.

But they had called her name, instead, four years ago. Heaven Servitt. There was nothing he could do. Boys couldn't volunteer for girls. And if he'd gone into the arena then, he would have died, too.

Maybe that would have been better. They could have died together. But this would have to do.

His parents hadn't come to say goodbye. They had said their goodbyes four years ago, when the boy from District One had stabbed their daughter through the heart. They had retreated. Distant. Barely acknowledging his presence, except to remind him that he shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be alive if she was dead.

Mars ran a finger along his scar, given to him four years ago by his father in a fit of rage and despair. Soon they would get their wish. And he would get his. He would see his sister again. They would be together.

But first, he would have his revenge.

* * *

_"There is no going back. There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold."_


	7. District Five: Against a Destroyer

**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **Thank you to everyone who had some very kind words to say about Mags. She will (almost certainly) be the only canon character appearing, due to the others being little babies or not having been born at this point. I loved her in the books and just couldn't resist including her.

Thank you to _seventhquill907 _and _x FallingAshes x _for Harakuise and Brie, respectively. (For anyone who is wondering, Harakuise is pronounced "Hair-accuse.")

* * *

**District Five Reaping  
****Against a Destroyer**

* * *

**Tania  
****Mentor, District Five****  
**

The rain was miserable, but it was still better than last year's reaping. Last year, the sun had been shining brightly as two children had been condemned to death. This was better. More fitting.

Tania sat, shivering, next to the mayor, who had offered to let her share his umbrella. But the rain helped. It made it harder for the crowd to tell that she was crying. That all she wanted was to crawl back into her bed. To get through this as quickly as possible.

Which made her feel horrible – wishing that it was over. Because the Games being over and done with meant twenty-three more deaths. Twenty-three more broken families. And there _was_ no end. Every year was simply a prelude to the next. There was no getting the Games over with. Not until she had someone to take her place.

Tania tucked her knees to her chest, waiting. The mayor's speech was shorter than usual. Maybe he wanted this over with as badly as she did. Ringell Mathers, District Five's escort, scurried up to the bowls, which were covered to keep the rain off. He lifted the lid, reached in, and chose a paper. He unfolded it carefully, trying to shield it from the rain. He cleared his throat and announced, "Erika Fl—"

"I volunteer!"

Tania's head snapped up. District Five had _never_ had a volunteer. The voice had come from the seventeen-year-old section, where the children backed quickly out of the way as a girl hurried to the stage, racing desperately, as if afraid that someone might get there before her.

But, of course, no one did. No one tried.

The girl, wet and shivering, smiled a little, relieved, as she reached the stage. Her light blue dress and wavy brown hair were soaked, but her eyes were bright. But not eager. Tania couldn't help but stare. She wasn't particularly tall or strong – not like most volunteers. She wasn't excited. Wasn't enjoying this. Why had she volunteered?

"And what's your name?" Ringell asked, trying to contain his own surprise.

"Aubrei Fallyn," the girl replied, visibly trying to remain calm. Fallyn. The name sounded familiar, as if she'd heard it recently, but Tania couldn't place it.

Ringell smiled, happy for this change of pace, and moved on to the next bowl. "Harakuise Swallot!"

Tania shivered. This name she knew. Everyone in the district had probably heard the name. Heard whispers. Swallot. A name all the rebels in the district had come to fear – even after the rebellion. Especially then.

But where was he?

Tania scanned the crowd. The boys in the fourteen-year-old section were looking around, wondering the same thing. Surely he wasn't hiding. But where else could he be?

Peacekeepers gathered in the section and checked it thoroughly, then spread out in the crowd and, at last, into the streets. Five minutes passed. Ten. The mayor and Ringell tried their best to entertain the crowd. The mayor gave a little speech about – of all things – the weather. Ringell told a few jokes.

No one laughed.

At last, the Peacekeepers returned with the boy. But, Tania noticed, not dragging him. Not forcing him. There was no sign of a struggle. The boy was unharmed.

Not that he looked fabulous – he was short, rail-thin and deathly pale. His green eyes were bloodshot and had a hollow look, but not from tears; he looked as if he hadn't slept in days, and the rain was probably the first water that had touched his dark hair in just as long.

But there was an odd calmness on the boy's face as he took the stage, as if this were all completely commonplace. Ringell came up to him, grinning. "Well, hello, young man. You must be Harakuise. And where have you been hiding?"

The boy shrugged. "I wasn't hiding. I forgot."

_Forgot? _Forgot about the reaping? Forgot about the Games? Tania stared as the two children shook hands. This certainly wasn't going to be like other years.

But, then again, all but one of the other years had ended with the death of both of District Five's tributes. So maybe different was good.

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Male****  
**

They hadn't let him bring the knife.

The Peacekeepers had found him in his basement. They'd come in armed, expecting a fight. Harakuise had rather enjoyed the look of shock on their faces when he admitted that he'd completely forgotten about the reaping. He'd then cleaned his knife, which was covered in blood and fur, and had meant to bring it as his token.

Of course, they wouldn't let him. So he had quickly grabbed his father's old watch, instead, as a reminder. A reminder of why he had to come back.

His father had been his first thought, when they had told him. Someone had to finish his father's work: cleansing the district of what little remained of the rebels. He and his men had only just returned from a mission the night before. The sight of the cringing rebels' blood had made Harakuise hungry for more, so, on the way home, he'd found an old alley cat.

He wondered if it would feel the same to kill a person. Oh, he'd ordered deaths, but never actually carried out the deed himself. Only animals. Only practice.

No one came to say goodbye. His men feared him, but they didn't love him. They worked only for their pay – which was considerable – not for the sake of their goal. There was no one among them whom he could trust to finish his task. Which was why it had to be him. He had to return.

He had to finish what his father had started.

* * *

**Brie Fallyn  
****District Five Female****  
**

Prepare for the worst.

That was what her mother had always said. And when she said 'the worst,' she meant the absolute worst. She meant the Hunger Games. So she had made sure that Brie and Jai were as prepared as they could be. Just in case. A little knife throwing, a little practice with their father's old sword. Not as much as some of the others, certainly. But enough, she had hoped, to be of some use.

Just in case.

But Brie was out of practice. Since her mother had died, there simply hadn't been any time to worry about that sort of what-if. Her father was always sick, and she had to juggle a part-time job along with school just to help the family scrape by. But it wasn't enough.

She hadn't been prepared.

And now this – what was once the worst-case scenario – was her only hope. Her only chance to save Jai, after the Peacekeepers had caught him smuggling some food home for their father. They wouldn't kill him. Not if she was in the Games. Not if they could make him watch his sister die before they took his life.

But if she won, they would let him go. They would have to. They wouldn't kill a victor's thirteen-year-old brother. The audience would never allow that. If she won, he would be safe.

Brie squeezed her little brother's toy soldier tightly in both hands. It was only a chance, but it was the only one she had. She couldn't lose him. She couldn't. She had to fight. She had to survive. She had to win.

Because if she died, so would he.

* * *

"_War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend."_


	8. District Six: To Walk in the Dark

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yes, I know, it's a rather quick update. But this chapter pretty much wrote itself from the moment I received these two tributes. And now we're halfway through the reapings. Wow.

Thank you to _TheTypeWriter001 _for pointing out some missing information from the last chapter: Jai (Brie's brother) is thirteen. I went back and added that to the chapter, but, for the people who read it before that ... yeah. Thirteen. Poor kid.

Thank you to _Starry-eyed dreamer86 _and _bobothebear _for Pike and Prius, respectively.

* * *

**District Six Reaping  
****To Walk in the Dark****  
**

* * *

**Aron Meldair  
****Mentor, District Six****  
**

It was good to be back.

Aron always felt a bit guilty thinking that, because being back in District Six meant it was time for the Games. Time for more pain and death. But, somehow, none of that could overwhelm the feeling of coming home.

Aron had been born in District Six. Of course, that was eighty-three years ago, when the Capitol's hold on the districts wasn't so tight. Travel between the districts and the Capitol had been more common. His family had moved to the Capitol when he was seventeen, but he had returned to his district every now and then.

And, slowly, as a young man, he had seen things change. The Capitol had grown more oppressive. Travel became more difficult, and the districts grew poorer. Finally, travel between the districts and the Capitol had halted altogether, except for necessary purposes. Aron had resigned himself to living the rest of his life in the Capitol.

Then came the war. By then, he was too old to fight – for which he was grateful. Fighting on either side would have been a nightmare, because he had family and friends both in the districts and in the Capitol. Oh, there was no denying – not in his mind – that the districts had good reason to rebel, but there was also no denying their inevitable defeat. The Capitol was stronger. Wealthier. Better supplied. There was no way the rebels could have won the war.

So he had lain low. Stayed out of the fighting. But when the chance came up to mentor District Six – an opportunity no one particularly wanted – he had taken it in a heartbeat. A chance to see his district again. His people. It was a rough job – becoming attached to two children and then watching them die – but he was an old man. He was used to the idea of death. His. Theirs. It made no difference. And of course he did his best to help his tributes, but, in the end, it seemed, his job was to help them find some peace.

Vanesse Clipper, District Six's escort, forced a smile as she walked to the podium. She was tired, he knew. She was young. She didn't understand death as he did. Eight years of leading children to their doom had taken their toll on her. Still, she smiled for the cameras as she reached into the bowl and drew a name. "Lara Romane!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted, but, as a girl began to walk timidly to the stage, a voice called out, "I volunteer!"

Everyone looked around, shocked, at where the voice had come from – not from any of the children's sections, but from off to the side, from a tall, grinning girl in a shining white dress, standing next to a man in a business suit. A man who tried to grab her before she could rush to the stage.

The girl was obviously not from District Six. Her shining skin, bright red hair, and terrifying yellow eyes marked her as a Capitolite. But she was here. In the district, on reaping day. Aron glanced over at Vanesse, then at the mayor. Was this allowed?

The man – clearly the girl's father – stormed to the stage, arguing that it wasn't. His daughter insisted that it was. The treaty said "a male and female tribute." There was nothing about said tributes being born in the district they were representing. Both looked at the mayor with pleading eyes. Back in the fifteen-year-old section, Lara, the girl who had been chosen, looked on silently, hopeful.

The mayor and Vanesse had a short conversation off to the side. At last, the mayor turned back to father and daughter. "What's your name, child?"

"Prius Gazer," the girl answered.

"And how old are you, Prius?"

"Sixteen."

The mayor nodded, then answered honestly. "I don't know of any rule that would prevent you from volunteering, so—"

The father glared. "Oh, I assure you, there _will_ be soon!" He stormed off the stage and down the street. Aron quietly wondered if it would be soon enough to help his daughter.

Prius was grinning as if she had already won the Games and was about to be showered with riches and attention. Aron shook his head quietly. She had no idea what she had just done.

Vanesse looked back at Aron, shrugging helplessly. There was nothing she could do but go on, so Aron nodded at the boys' bowl. Vanesse regained her composure, reached in, and drew a name. "Pike Carter!"

Everyone looked back toward the twelve-year-old section, where a small boy stood at the very back. The boy took a trembling step forward, but stumbled and nearly fell. Two arms reached out and caught him – a boy behind him, in the adult section, who could only have been his brother. Too old to volunteer in his place, the older boy knelt down and whispered something in his brother's ear. The child nodded, turned, and started towards the stage.

The boy was small and thin, his blue shirt and khaki pants far too big for him. His light blonde hair hung limply over his face, nearly covering his green eyes. He was trembling and holding back tears, and nearly tripped over his own baggy pants as he reached the stage. But he took his place next to Prius and stood as tall as he could.

The girl towered over him, but she reached out her hand, grinning. As he shook it, a hint of a smile came over the little boy's face. But not the same cheery, naïve smile that Prius offered him. A smile of quiet resignation.

Aron knew that smile. He saw it often in the mirror.

It was the smile of someone who knew death, and was ready to face his own.

* * *

**Prius Gazer  
****District Six Female****  
**

At last, she had done it! She was in the Hunger Games!

She had tried last year, when they had been in District One, but a girl had volunteered before her. Here, there was no risk of that. No other volunteers. No one to get in her way.

Except her father, who sat across from her now, pleading, silently, for her not to do this. Prius' stepmother sat beside her, wordless. She had already accepted what her husband was fighting to deny: there was no way out of this.

The Games! She had dreamed about this nearly all her life. It was supposed to be a punishment for the districts, but what an opportunity! For weeks, the attention of everyone in Panem would be on a group of twenty-four children, and now she was one of them! They would all be watching her.

And then, when she won, they would cheer. They would shout. She would have everything she could wish for. Her family could stop moving around. They could settle down somewhere – maybe in the Capitol, maybe in one of the richer districts. Her father wouldn't have to work any more. She would have him all to herself.

After she won. Prius fiddled with her bright red hair, adjusting the ivory comb that was now her district token. How could she not win? The Capitol would love it – one of their citizens in the Games. They would all love her. And that was the secret. That was how tributes won, in the end. Training didn't matter. Strength didn't matter. All that mattered was how much the audience loved them.

And how could they not love one of their own?

* * *

**Pike Carter  
****District Six Male****  
**

Cradled safely in his brother Axel's arms, Pike finally let himself cry. "Be strong," Axel had said when he had caught Pike at the reaping. It was what their father had always said, the last thing he had said to them before his execution. Before Pike had seen the life drain from his eyes, right in front of him.

And now the same thing was going to happen to him. Pike buried his face in his brother's shirt. He couldn't deny it. He had no chance. No chance at all. Even if he was older, stronger, he knew, he would never be able to kill. He could never do that to someone else.

"It'll be all right," Axel said quietly, but the words were hollow, and they both knew it. Their sister, Azure, was crying as she removed the blue band she always wore around her neck and handed it to Pike. Their mother slid two rings onto the end – her wedding ring, and her husband's. Axel fastened the band around his little brother's neck.

Pike wiped his eyes. He hated crying. He hated seeing them cry. He didn't want to leave them like this. He didn't want them to be sad. So he said the only happy thing he could think of. "It's okay – I've always wanted to see the Capitol!"

It wasn't true, of course. He had no interest in the Capitol. But Axel picked up on what he was trying to do. "I bet that Capitol man will pay even more for the car we've been fixing once he knows a tribute helped work on it!"

"And the girl – Prius – she's from the Capitol," Pike added. "I bet she can show me around and tell me all sorts of stories. It'll be fun." He smiled – a wide, toothy grin. Axel ruffled his hair, and they all sat there, trying to smile, until the Peacekeepers came.

Only once they were gone did Pike add, quietly, "I'll tell dad you said hello."

* * *

"_Let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."_


	9. District Seven: Upon Some Dreadful Brink

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just your friendly every-three-chapters-or-so reminder to keep an eye out for potential allies for your tribute(s).

**Submitters of Careers, **you are not exempt from this. The usual pack mentality isn't set in stone yet, and doesn't really feel natural with the group of "Careers" that we've got here. So, if there's going to be a "pack" of some sort ... Who would you like to see in it?

Since this is one of the earlier Games, pretty much anything goes. (Kids forgetting the reaping, Capitolites volunteering, and other stuff that would never fly by the time the rules are better established.) So please don't hold back a suggestion on account of it being a little unorthodox. I _like_ unorthodox.

Again, I may not be able to accommodate _every_ suggestion, but the more I have to work with, the better.

Thank you to _QuietConspiracy _and _PennytheMonsterBringer_ for Sterling and Cahra, respectively.

* * *

**District Seven Reaping  
****Upon Some Dreadful Brink**

* * *

**Hazel  
****Mentor, District Seven****  
**

Hazel clenched her fists as she settled into her seat beside the mayor. Arthrim Rangel, District Seven's escort, flashed her a reassuring smile. Hazel tried to smile back. Arthrim had been her mentor, and had stayed on as District Seven's escort when their previous escort, Floressa, had been moved to District Four. "This year," Arthrim mouthed. This year would be different.

They wouldn't fail again.

They made a good team – her experience in the arena, his knowledge of the Capitol. But, so far, that hadn't been enough. They'd come close, a few times. Tributes from District Seven usually had the advantage of at least a little experience with axes or knives. Sometimes more than a little. But that hadn't been enough to save them.

But that would change. It had to.

The mayor read Hazel's name. For a moment, she was startled, fearing her name had been drawn again. But, no, he was reading the list of victors. Hazel hated that title. She had won nothing. Nothing but the right to watch other children die, while she remained helpless to stop it.

No. Not this time.

The mayor finished, and Arthrim stood. Approached one of the bowls. Pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. "Cahra Sheed!"

The fourteen-year-old section made way for a petite girl in a white blouse and black skirt. There was no fear on her face. No surprise. It was almost as if she had expected to hear her name. As if they couldn't possibly have called anyone else.

The girl walked slowly to the stage, her fists clenched. The anger in her bright green eyes more than made up for her lack of fear. Her black hair hung in a ponytail, nearly reaching her waist. Her eyes darted from person to person – from Hazel to Arithrim to the mayor, then, at last, to the cameras. She crossed her arms defiantly and glared straight into the cameras. "I'm not afraid of you," she announced flatly.

Hazel smiled a little as Arithrim tried to decide what to make of that. "Good!" he decided at last. "On to the boys!" He drew a name from the second bowl. "Sterling Therms!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted, revealing a boy in a blue flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. Shock crossed his face, but he swallowed hard and made his way to the stage. He was tall, lean but strong, with long, dark, black-brown hair and bright blue eyes that kept glancing back at the crowd. Hazel tried to follow his gaze. Who was he watching?

The boy took his place beside Cahra, who was already sizing him up with her sharp green eyes. He bent down, almost kneeling, and held out his hand. The girl waited a moment before shaking it.

For a moment, Hazel simply watched them. Yes. This was their year. One of the children in front of her would die. But not both. Not this time.

One of these two could win.

* * *

**Sterling Therms  
****District Seven Male****  
**

"Daddy!"

Sterling looked up as the Peacekeepers finally let Abi and Bailey in. Bailey was squirming in Abi's arms, and ran to him as soon as Abi set her down. "Daddy, what did you win? Why did they call your name?"

Tears came to Sterling's eyes. Bailey was only three – too young to understand that being chosen at the reaping wasn't a prize. What could he say? He looked at Abi. "He won a trip to the Capitol," she offered. "And he has to go away for a while. But he'll be back."

To Sterling's surprise, his sister's voice was sincere. Confident. She truly expected him to come home.

Bailey's eyes were wide with excitement. "Can I come? Can I?"

Sterling scooped his daughter up onto his lap. "No. No, I can't bring you with me. I'll be … very busy."

"Won't you be lonely?"

Of course he would. But Sterling shook his head. "You saw the girl on stage? Cahra? She'll be with me. And there'll be others – two from every district. There'll be _lots_ of people." Lots of people who could kill him. Lots of people he might have to kill.

_Would_ have to kill, in order to come home. The thought made him sick – but not as sick as the thought of Bailey growing up without him. Abi was right. He _had_to come back. For her.

"But you won't _know_ any of them," Bailey said stubbornly. She held out her little rag doll. "Take Patches. Then you won't be alone."

Sterling took the little doll in his hands. It was missing an eye, and its shirt was torn. "All right," he said quietly, tucking the doll into his shirt pocket. "I'll make you a deal. I'll look after Patches. You look after your Aunt Abi. And I'll see you both very soon."

As he drew Bailey into a hug, Sterling stole a glance at Abi. He didn't know which was worse – the thought that they might have to watch him die, or that they might have to watch him kill. Silently, while his daughter was looking the other way, Sterling mouthed four words.

"Don't let Bailey watch."

* * *

**Cahra Sheed  
****District Seven Female****  
**

Cahra stopped pacing long enough to pin her badge on her blouse. A tree with fire behind it. Her two favorite things. As long as she had those, there was no reason to be afraid.

She wasn't afraid, anyway, of course. Anyone else would be shocked. Surprised, at least. But she had known. They had meant to pick her. There probably hadn't even been any other names in the bowl. They wanted her dead. Ever since she had tried to burn down the Justice Building.

She still couldn't figure out why it hadn't worked. Her plan had been perfect. She had placed her torch carefully, watched the flames start to grow around the building before she left. But, the next day, she had walked by to see the fruit of her labor, and there was the Justice Building, completely unharmed. Not even singed.

It must have been her parents. They must have followed her. Put out the fire, hidden the evidence. It was their fault.

They were afraid. Afraid of what might happen. Afraid that she would fight back, and that others would follow. They could pretend they were trying to protect her, but she knew better. She knew they hated her.

In fact, being in the arena was probably safer than being here. At least in the arena, people were willing to admit they were your enemies. Here, her enemies smiled and pretended to care. But they were her enemies, just the same.

They hadn't even come to say goodbye. No one had. They had already given up on her. But she would show them.

She would show them all.

* * *

On the other side of the door, a man and a woman stood, hugging each other, weeping. Wondering whether their little girl had even noticed that they had left the room – or that they had been there at all.

On stage, Arithem Rangel tossed two bowls – each containing hundreds of different names – into the trash.

And outside the Justice Building, a janitor found a small stick with several red and orange pieces of ribbon tied to the end.

He shrugged and threw it away.

* * *

"_I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell."_


	10. District Eight: Generous Deed

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **My updating schedule has been thrown off a little due to real-life events such as parent-teacher conferences eating up what would have been free time this week. I'd apologize, but that would be silly. That's part of my job; this is a hobby.

District Nine will probably be up sometime between Sunday and Tuesday. So ... maybe Monday. I'll aim for Monday.

Thank you to _bobothebear_ and _torystory93 _for Zione and Nicoline, respectively.

* * *

**Distric Eight Reaping  
****Generous Deed**

* * *

**Lander  
****Mentor, District Eight****  
**

In a sick, twisted way, Lander actually enjoyed the reaping.

It was a strange, terrible privilege to be part of it – to witness the tributes' final moments as children. Because as soon as they stepped onto that stage, they were dead. Already dead. Even if they survived. Even if they won. Dead. Empty. And certainly no longer children.

So he was smiling as he took his seat beside the mayor. He knew his smile unnerved the crowd. Good. They should be uneasy. Two of their children were about to be condemned to death – or worse.

Samarin Lanair, District Eight's escort, plunged his hand into the first bowl. Lander watched intently. Samarin's skin was a dark red. Fitting, Lander thought – he could practically see the blood on the man's hands as he drew out a slip of paper. Paper that should be dripping, gushing red. Red with the blood of—

"Nicoline Peters!" Samarin announced, shaking Lander from his thoughts. Lander cringed in spite of himself. He knew the name. He knew this girl. She had brought him eggs earlier this morning…

Sure enough, as the thirteen-year-old section parted, Lander saw his maid, straightening her ratty green dress and trying her best not to look terrified as she took small, slow steps toward the stage. Instead, she simply looked young – short and thin, her brown hair pulled back in her usual bun, her grey eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to look out at the crowd for fear of losing her composure.

Then she stepped onstage, a child no longer, a victim simply waiting to die. Lander looked away. Away from the little girl who had looked at him with such fear earlier. Back at Samarin, who was approaching the second bowl. He reached in, and drew a name. "Shaw Peters!"

What little color was left in the girl's face drained in an instant, and all thought of remaining calm for the sake of the crowd was abandoned. The little girl burst into tears as a boy who could only have been her brother made his way from the sixteen-year-old section to the stage. He was taller and stronger than his sister, but had the same brown hair and grey eyes, and he was trying desperately not to cry as he took his place beside her.

"Well, isn't that a stroke of luck!" Samarin declared. "Two tributes from the same family! But I do have to ask – Are there any volunteers?"

"I volunteer." A boy stepped forward out of the eighteen-year-old section and approached the stage. Lander watched as he stepped up next to the siblings. He was tall and strong, with brown hair and deep brown eyes.

Shaw looked up, startled. Then relieved. Then furious – not at the older boy for taking his place, but that no one was willing to do the same for his sister. The emotions flashed across his face in an instant. Unable to contain his anger, he lashed out at the nearest person, slamming his fist into the older boy's chest.

The boy stepped back, startled, but caught the second punch with his left hand and placed his right firmly on the younger boy's shoulder. "Go home, Shaw," he said in a lowered voice. Angry tears flowed down Shaw's face, but, after one more glance at his sister, he obeyed.

Samarin grinned, ecstatic. "That's the spirit of the Games! Unpredictability! What's your name, young man?"

"Zione Carlin," the boy answered, his voice steady. Calm.

"And do you know these two? Friend of the family?" Lander knew he was fishing. Looking for the answer to the question in everyone's mind: What had prompted the boy to volunteer? If he'd planned to volunteer, surely he would have worn something more impressive than a ragged t-shirt and jeans. But there had been no recognition in the siblings' expressions. The boy was a stranger.

Zione shook his head, his eyes on the camera. "No. I've never met them before in my life. But no one should have to face their family in the arena."

Lander grimaced. The boy had no idea what he was saying. When the little girl died in the arena, it wouldn't matter if her brother was by her side. All the boy had accomplished was that two families would be mourning instead of one.

But then Zione turned back to Nicoline, a look of grim pity on his face. Silently, he did the only thing he could do to comfort her; he held out his hand.

But, instead of shaking it, the little girl threw her arms around the boy's waist and, through tears, whispered, "Thank you."

* * *

**Nicoline Peters  
****District Eight Female****  
**

It was odd not to feel scared.

Nicoline knew she should. She should be terrified. Should be dreading what was to come in the arena. And there would be plenty of time for that later, she had no doubt. But, instead, as she sat next to her brother, holding her ten-year-old sister Mabel close, her parents on either side of them, all she could feel was relief. Relief that Shaw would not be going into the arena with her.

Shaw didn't agree. "I should have said no. I shouldn't have let him. I should be going with you. Maybe I'd be able to protect you. Maybe—"

"No," Nicoline said quietly. "No, this is better. If we both went in, at least one of us would die. This way … at least one of us gets to live."

"And maybe both," Mabel added hopefully. "Maybe you'll win."

Nicoline let her tears fall gently onto her little sister's hair. Was that even a possibility? Even if it wasn't, she could pretend. For a moment, they could all pretend that this goodbye wasn't forever. That they would all be together again.

The moment was over too soon. The Peacekeepers came for her family, and Nicoline was left with only her thoughts and a small shilling ring. But that was enough. She was alone, and she would be going into the arena alone. Most likely, she would not be coming back, and there would be an empty place in their house. An empty spot on the floor where they all slept. An empty stool at their little table.

But only one.

* * *

**Zione  
****District Eight Male****  
**

It had all gone perfectly. Even better than he had expected.

He had planned every detail. Every move. Every word. Volunteering had to look like an impulsive decision on his part, or they might suspect.

Zione knew he had to be careful, but that was nothing new. He had spent the last nine years being cautious, keeping a careful distance.

And it showed. His only visitor had been his elderly landlady, Polaknia. She had been near tears as she had given him a token – a needle that had belonged to her only son. He was so brave, she had said, volunteering for that boy. Risking his life to save a complete stranger. He hadn't had the heart to tell her it was all a lie.

But it was a necessary lie – his performance. He had planned it all this morning, after watching District Two's reaping.

He always watched the reapings. It was a sort of ritual now – watching them and silently apologizing to each of the young boys and girls. Apologizing for the fact that they had lost. That they hadn't been strong enough. That they had let the Capitol win.

It was a depressing routine, but now he was grateful for it. Because if he hadn't been watching, then he wouldn't have seen her – not until it was too late.

Zione Brink smiled, bitterly aware of the fact that he had condemned himself to the same fate from which he had spared the boy – facing his family in the arena. Maybe it was foolish. But it was done.

He would see her again. What was left of their family would be together one last time. Then, inevitably, at least one of them would die. And maybe both.

But it would be worth it.

* * *

"_I do not know what put it into your head, or your heart, to do that. But it was well done. I did not hinder it, for generous deed should not be checked by cold counsel."_


	11. District Nine: What is to Come

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **A little later than I was aiming for, I know. These two were a bit of a challenge for me. But a good sort of challenge. And now we're three fourths of the way through the reapings.

Thank you to _TheTypeWriter001 _and _xDisgraceful Avengerx _for Husk and Antiquity, respectively.

* * *

**District Nine Reaping  
****What is to Come**

* * *

**Belonessa Capricorn  
****Mentor, District Nine****  
**

There was no way anyone could possibly eat that much grain.

Belonessa stared out at the fields, shocked. Wondering how much of that field it would take to make a loaf of bread. Not much, surely; all of the stalks were so tall. Maybe two or three. Four, at most. So much grain. So much bread. How were these people still so thin?

This was Belonessa's first year in District Nine. Her first time outside the Capitol, in fact. District Nine's previous mentor, Nerond Pel, had "retired." Belonessa shook her head. Everyone knew what a failure Nerond had been. Eight years of young boys and girls who were usually strong from working in the fields, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing.

Well, now it was her turn. District Nine had so much potential. They just needed the right guiding hand. Hers.

Belonessa drew her gaze away from the fields and back to the crowd as the mayor finished his speech. Simmity Danterri, District Nine's escort, bounced up to the podium and greeted the crowd. Belonessa smiled. At least Simmity did her job well. Not that it was a hard job – being excited for the crowd and drawing two names out of bowls – but someone had to do it. Someone with a little pep and cheer. And that was Simmity to a t.

Simmity reached into the first bowl and drew a slip of paper. Belonessa was on the edge of her seat with anticipation. Her very first tribute ever was—

"Antiquity Kirsh!"

A noise – an almost animal-like snarling – came from the fourteen-year-old section. Belonessa could see a girl thrashing – against no one in particular at first, but then against the Peacekeepers who came to retrieve her. They dragged her to the stage, where Belonessa was still beaming excitedly. This girl had spunk!

She was thin, but tall for her age – maybe a couple inches shy of six feet, though it was hard to tell with her flailing about. Her hair, dark and wild, ran long down her back, reaching her waist. As the Peacekeepers dragged her onstage, Belonessa could see her eyes – a deep, raging sea-blue. At least, Belonessa thought it was sea-blue. She'd never actually seen the sea. Maybe someday. Was it really that blue?

No, this wasn't the time for daydreaming. She needed to focus. But it was so hard with the girl making all that noise. Finally, the Peacekeepers gave her some sort of sedative, but that calmed her so much that they had to support her, one on either side.

Belonessa clapped her hands as Simmity reached into the second bowl. This was so exciting! It was even better than she'd imagined! Simmity unfolded the second piece of paper. "Husk Fange!"

The sixteen-year-old section quickly parted for a boy in a blue business suit. His expression was furious as he stomped to the stage, but, compared to the girl, he was downright calm. Maybe he didn't want to be sedated, too, Belonessa thought, beaming. He was perfect – tall, strong, dark, with dark blonde hair and dark brown eyes. If only he would stop scowling, he would be quite handsome.

They looked so fantastic, standing there together. Yes, this was their year. She would make sure everyone remembered her first Hunger Games. The only question was, which one of these two would be her first victor?

* * *

**Husk Fange  
****District Nine Male****  
**

He hadn't expected anyone to come to say goodbye.

Husk watched as the last of his employees bustled out the door, wishing him the best of luck. For a brief second, the man glanced back, and Husk could see the fear in his eyes. Husk scoffed as he realized why he and the dozens before him had really come.

They knew he had a good chance of winning. And, if he came home victorious, maybe he would remember the people who had wished him well. Maybe he would show them favor. Or, perhaps, they were afraid of what he would do to those who _hadn't _come.

But they were wrong. He wouldn't remember. He didn't even know most of their names. They weren't important. Most of them were incompetent, the rest simply lazy. He got more done in an hour when he took to the fields himself – which was often, even since inheriting the company. It only made sense to send the best person to do a job – and the best person was him.

Which was why he had a good chance in the arena – good enough that they had recognized it, despite their district's victor-less past. He was already the best. The others – even the few who had trained – didn't truly know what they were about to do. The fear of the prey. The incredible rush of a killing blow. The empty feeling that followed.

He could still see the three men – his father's business rivals and the owner's son, his best friend since childhood. They were dead. But even that had left a hollow feeling, because it would never return what he had lost.

Husk gripped his father's locket, opened it one more time to see the picture inside – himself and his parents, smiling, happy. That was his advantage. He knew would never have his father back. The men who had murdered him – their deaths wouldn't bring him back. Neither would the deaths of the children in the arena. His father would never return.

But he would.

* * *

**Antiquity Kirsh  
****District Nine Female****  
**

The fact that Historia was actually hugging her proved how bad the situation was.

Antiquity's little sister usually had the sense to keep her distance. But not now. Now she sat beside Antiquity with her arms wrapped tightly around her older sister, silently begging for her to come back.

And Antiquity still felt nothing.

A very small part of her felt a twinge of disappointment. A part that had thought that maybe – maybe – the rage she had felt this morning after being reaped would lead to more. Just feeling _anything_ again had been so overwhelming that she had simply lashed out, not caring who she hurt in the process.

But now the rage was gone, and the emptiness had returned to take its place.

Part of her knew she _should_ feel something. If not fear, then maybe anticipation. Excitement. Anger. Anything.

But, instead, the void remained. The hollowness that had come over her nearly two years ago. Two years. The last time she had truly felt anything, and it had been fear. Confusion. Panic. Terror as the man had lunged at her. Desperation as she had struck back with the only weapon she could find: a shard of glass from a broken bottle. And then blood. And then amazement.

And then nothing.

As her mother and sister left, wordless, Antiquity wondered if maybe – just maybe – being in the arena would bring that fear back. Maybe the danger of being killed would be enough. Or maybe actually killing someone would be enough. Enough to feel something – anything – again.

Maybe. And she would find out soon enough.

* * *

"_What was is less dark than what is to come."_


	12. District Ten: Those Who See the End

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **Just your friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies.

Thank you to _DeuceExMachina _and _TheTypeWriter001 _for Wulfric and Libby, respectively.

* * *

**District Ten Reaping  
****Those Who See the End**

* * *

**Glenn  
****Mentor, District Ten****  
**

Blood.

Glenn winced as he accidentally bit his cheek while chewing the last bite of his sandwich. He was probably the only person in District Ten who didn't have trouble keeping food down before the reaping. He had the courtesy not to bring his snack onstage, but he still had time for a small bite.

Sometimes he felt guilty – especially when so many in District Ten didn't have enough to eat – but he couldn't help it. Two weeks of nearly starving to death in the Games had taken their toll. But he knew he had no right to complain about that, either, when he was the only one to leave that cursed arena alive.

Glenn hurried up to the stage as the mayor rose to give his speech. The crowd gave a small applause – whether for him or the mayor, he wasn't sure. He hoped it was for the mayor. He couldn't stand the way they looked at him on reaping day, like he was some sort of hero because he'd managed to go unnoticed long enough to survive. That was nothing special.

Or maybe it was. Maybe they were aware – in some small way – that they were cheering for the only victor who had never killed. The only one to come out of the arena cold, tired, and very hungry – but with no blood on his hands. And maybe that _was_ something to be proud of.

But it wasn't something that would help the two children who were chosen today. He had no real advice to give. No real experience. No way to reassure them.

Nothing.

The mayor finished his speech, then read Glenn's name. Glenn forced himself to look out at the crowd. A few eyes looked at him with something between warmth and pity. But most eyes were on Maxillum Denrig, District Ten's escort. He smiled as he dipped his hand into a bowl and drew a name. "Elibrium Hall!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a black dress. She was tall for her age and rather large, but none of it was muscle; even her rather shapeless black dress couldn't hide her size. She was tan, with long, dirty-blonde hair streaked with brown.

But Glenn knew the Capitol audience saw none of that. They saw only the fact that she was already sobbing inconsolably – and had probably been crying even before her name had been drawn. "Come on," Glenn whispered, though he wasn't quite sure what he was wishing for: that the girl would work up the nerve to come to the stage on her own, or that someone would miraculously step forward to take her place.

It didn't matter, because neither one happened.

Two Peacekeepers were quickly at the girl's side, but it took four of them, by the end, to half-carry the girl to the stage while she continued weeping hysterically, her brown eyes wide and pleading. Glenn knew the crowd in the Capitol would be laughing, but here, in District Ten, there was only silence. Only pity. But no rescue.

Once onstage, the girl collapsed, and the Peacekeepers simply let her fall. Glenn cursed under his breath, sprang up as quickly as someone of his size could manage, and grabbed the pillow from his chair. The Peacekeepers stepped back, surprised, as he slid the pillow beneath the girl's head, loosened the collar of her dress to allow her to breathe, and checked her pulse. She was fine. For now.

Maxillum ignored them completely, which was something of a relief. The sooner the cameras left the girl, the better. Crying was somewhat usual, but fainting was rather extreme even for District Ten. Glenn barely glanced up as Maxillum approached the second bowl, drew a name, and announced, "Wulfric Harding!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy who was taller than the girl and also large – except that his weight _was_ muscle. His sandy blonde hair hung down to his shoulders. He walked silently to the stage, but paused for a moment, unsure, as he passed Glenn and the girl. Glenn shrugged helplessly; no one seemed sure what to do next.

Except Maxillum. "Shake hands, you two!" he grinned as the girl's eyes fluttered open again. The girl looked around, dazed and confused. Glenn shot Maxillum a glare, then turned to the boy, not sure what to ask him to do.

The boy hesitated a moment, then knelt down beside Glenn and slid an arm under one of the girl's shoulders. Glenn did the same, and, together, they helped the girl to her feet. She was still crying and shaky. Glenn looked around. Someone needed to do something.

Someone.

He didn't even think. He just shot the boy a quick look to make sure he'd be able to support the girl on his own, then dashed over to where Maxillum stood, "accidentally" tripping over his own feet and barreling into the escort. As he struggled to his feet, Glenn grinned at the crowd as stupidly as he could, then grabbed Maxillum's microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, your tributes for the Ninth Annual Hunger Games!" he shouted, and dove into the crowd.

The group of eighteen-year-olds didn't exactly catch him.

By the time Glenn limped back to the stage, the cameras were all on him, and the crowd was dispersing. Through the pain of a few bruises, Glenn glimpsed a lopsided smile on the boy's face. But beneath that smile was a question: _How the hell did you make it through the Games alive?_

* * *

**Libby Hall  
****District Ten Female****  
**

Blood.

She could practically smell it already. Her blood, spilled all over the arena, like her tears spilling over her father's shirt as she buried her face in his chest. Her mother stood off to the side, and her brother Javis sat awkwardly nearby, not sure what to say. But Libby held her father close, as if they would never be able to make her let go. As if by clinging to him, she could cling to life just a little bit longer.

"Maybe you'll get lucky," Javis said quietly. That was even worse. Libby knew he was trying to be kind, trying to hope. But knowing that luck was the only way she would make it through the Games – that was even worse. Because nobody was _that_ lucky.

Javis, immediately realizing he'd said the wrong thing, slid over beside Libby and their father and handed her a gold watch – the same one he'd given her for her birthday three years ago, on her first reaping day.

Her birthday present. That reminded her. "Javis? Take care of Floppy, okay?"

Javis nodded, but Libby knew the huge mutt would be devastated, just the same, when she didn't come home. When she never came home.

Stupid. She was going to die, and all she could think about was how sad her dog would be. That just made it worse. Libby sat there, crying into her father's arms, until the Peacekeepers came and dragged her family away.

At last, she tried to slide the watch onto her wrist. But it pinched at her skin. She'd grown in three years. So she tucked it in her pocket, instead, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, still shaking, muttering quietly.

"Happy Birthday, Libby."

* * *

**Wulfric Harding  
****District Ten Male****  
**

Blood. He could already smell it.

Or maybe he simply hadn't been able to wash it all off his hands after his shift the night before.

Wulfric shook his head. A small part of him wondered if it would smell the same, feel the same, when the blood came from children instead of animals.

They had tried to tell him it would – his friends. His family, really, growing up in the community home. Alec, Leonard, and Jackson all worked with him at the slaughterhouse. They were used to the blood. The smell. Organs and bone and muscle – it was numbing after a while.

A small part of him knew they were probably right. That it couldn't be that much harder to kill a person. That he could do it if he needed to. But he was still disgusted by the thought. He had seen enough death – more than enough. They all had; he and the other orphans had lost everything in the war. Their families. Their friends. Their childhoods.

He had no desire to see more death, let alone be part of it. That's what they wanted – the people who had already taken everything from him. They wanted him to kill. To destroy innocent lives. Or to _be_ killed himself, of course – it really didn't matter to them which one he chose.

Wulfric wrung his hands. There was no choice, once it came down to it. In the end, he knew he could kill. He knew he _would_. But only then. Only if there was no other way.

Only then.

* * *

"_Despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not."_


	13. District Eleven: Learned or Guessed

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games still isn't mine.

**Note: **Yeah, I know, quick update. Another one of those chapters that pretty much wrote itself when I received these two.

Thank you to _BecauseofKillianJones _and _MidnightRaven323 _for Sher and Lordez, respectively.

* * *

**District Eleven Reaping  
****Learned or Guessed**

* * *

**Ivy  
****Mentor, District Eleven****  
**

Seven years ago, she had smiled for the cameras as she had taken the stage, the Hunger Games' first volunteer. A year later, she had taken her place beside the mayor, so confident in her unknown tributes. Now, it was all Ivy could do to remain seated and silent, glaring at the cameras, when what she really wanted was to scream in rage against the monsters who had sentenced her to this fate.

But that wouldn't help her tributes.

Not that anything would, really. Few tributes from District Eleven shared her confidence, her strength, her skill. Most died early in the Games, leaving her with nothing to do but throw darts at their pictures while her fellow mentors were still frantically searching for sponsors.

The mayor read their "list" of victors. Maybe someday they would actually have more than one name on that list. Maybe.

District Eleven's escort, Kandee Stringles, rose, grinning. Ivy had to fight back an urge to get up and smack her in her smiling, unnaturally pink face. Kandee reached into the first bowl and drew a slip of paper. "Sonya Withers!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a small girl with a terrified expression. But before the little girl could take more than a few steps towards the stage, a loud, "I volunteer!" rang through the crowd.

A girl stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section. For a moment, Ivy hoped to see someone with a bit of training or natural strength, but the girl who hurried to the stage was slim and rather average in height. She had long, curly black hair that hung to her waist, mocha skin, and a simple green dress with a black ribbon around the waist. All in all, she looked like a regular girl on reaping day.

Except for her smile. That was what made Ivy look twice. Her smile, and a strange sparkle in her amber eyes. She radiated something that Ivy hadn't seen in a tribute for six years: confidence.

Kandee was beaming so much, Ivy thought her face might crack. Which wasn't a bad image. "And what's your name, my dear?" she asked.

"Lordez Miller," the girl replied.

"Miller," Kandee repeated. "So, Sonya – no relation, then."

"My friend," Lordez answered.

"Excellent!" Kandee decided. "On to the boys!" She reached into the second bowl and drew another slip. "Sherlacham—"

"Sherlacham Haimish," a voice called, correcting her pronunciation. A boy stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section and practically ran to the stage, his expression a mix of awkward excitement and annoyance at having his name butchered.

He was unusually pale for District Eleven – maybe his family had been refugees from another district during the war. He had short, black hair and grey-blue eyes that matched the rest of his outfit – grey and black. He was tall, and seemed even taller as he took his place next to his shorter district partner. "Why don't you tell them why you really volunteered?" he asked Lordez, loudly enough for the crowd to hear.

Lordez appeared shocked for a moment, but quickly recovered. "Sonya's my friend."

"Wrong. Nobody's that selfless. No, no, no, the real answer's much more interesting. You're curious. The way you rushed up here, that smile – you enjoy a challenge. You've always wondered whether or not you could win, whether your mind would be enough to get you through when only the strongest survive. No, your friend was just the catalyst – the extra push you needed to rush up here where you always wanted to be."

The girl smirked, undeterred by his rapid-fire explanation. "And what about you? Shouting out your own name when most people would be hoping for someone else whose name was close to their own—"

"Not likely. The chances of someone else having a name close enough to mine—"

"—are astronomical but still there. But you were _hoping_ to hear your name, weren't you." She looked him over again. "But not because you wanted to be in the Games. You just wanted to be up on stage so you could show off what you'd figured out about me." She scoffed. "You probably don't even know what you've just been picked for."

"Of course I do. I—"

"Well, well!" Kandee interrupted. "Such eager tributes this year! Fighting already. But there'll be plenty of time for that in the arena. For now, shake hands!"

The two tributes stared at her for a moment, then at each other. Finally, the girl burst out laughing and held out her hand. The boy hesitated a moment, but then shook it, grinning broadly.

Ivy stared, completely bewildered.

On the one hand, at least they weren't twelve. At least they weren't crying. At least they were smiling and laughing – the Capitol would love that.

But they were completely mad.

* * *

**Lordez Miller  
****District Eleven Female****  
**

Ridiculous.

Of course she didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be hugging Sonya goodbye, promising the little girl who was like a sister to her that she'd be all right. That she'd come back. A promise that she'd try very hard to keep, of course, but Lordez knew the odds were against her.

But she was used to that. She'd spent her whole life fighting the odds. After her mother had been killed in a freak tracker-jacker attack, Lordez had been left on her own. But she'd quickly found her niche in the gambling circle, learning to read an opponent's movements, learning when to call a bluff, learning how to survive.

Which was why she hadn't argued with the boy. He was wrong, of course. Completely wrong. But it wouldn't hurt for the Capitol to think he was right. That she was enjoying this. That she was in it for the thrill of challenging and testing herself to the limit.

Sonya slipped a small pendant into Lordez's hand. It was a horseshoe, with a four-leaf clover tucked inside. "It can't hurt to have a bit more luck," the girl said quietly.

Lordez nodded and took the pendant. Sonya didn't understand. It wasn't really about luck at all. It was a game of skill. A battle of wits. And it was a game she intended to win.

The Peacekeepers came to retrieve Sonya, leaving Lordez alone, staring at the pendant. Startled, she realized that, if she looked closely, she could see her own reflection.

And she was smiling.

* * *

**Sher Haimish  
****District Eleven Male****  
**

He was already bored.

Sher hated waiting, even for a moment. It seemed ages before the Peacekeepers let Joham in. Sher's best friend didn't waste any time. "Do you have _any_ idea what you just got chosen for?"

Sher shrugged. He hated admitting that he didn't know. But the Hunger Games were one of those things he'd never really had time to pay attention to. They just existed, like the fact that the Sun went around the Earth, or that winter came after spring. It wasn't something he ever thought about; it was just there, in the background.

But Joham seemed terribly upset, so Sher decided to indulge him. "From your agitated mental state, I assume that it's dangerous. The pink-skinned lady said there'd be enough time for fighting in the arena, so the premise of these Games is presumably a fight to the death. Naturally, you're worried, but don't be. It'll be fun."

"Fun?" Joham's face got all squinty like it always did when he was upset. "You could _die_!"

"Not likely, although I suppose it's always possible. Now, tell me, what does one do when a girl gives him a necklace?" He frowned, unsure, as he held up the necklace Bianca had given him. It had struck him as odd that she had given him such a feminine piece of jewelry, and he wasn't sure if he was expected to wear it or keep it in his pocket or simply throw it away.

Joham sighed, exasperated, and plopped down next to Sher. "Just … just keep it in your front pocket for now. There."

"Ah." Sher drummed his fingers on the bench. "Anything else I should know?"

Joham shook his head, watching his friend with worried eyes. "Just … don't die."

Sher smiled. "I don't plan to."

* * *

"_You spoke with skill in a hard place, and wisely, it seemed to me. But I learned or guessed more from you than your words said."_


	14. District Twelve: Do Not Trust to Hope

**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **I made it through the reapings! Pretty proud of that. Just a couple of things to mention.

**1.** After you're done with this chapter, there is a poll on my profile page where you can vote for **up to five** of your favorite tributes. These _are not necessarily_ the tributes you think are most likely to win. (I'll have a separate poll for that later.) Use whatever criteria you like to determine your favorites.

Feel free to vote for your own tribute(s). That's part of the reason I decided on a maximum of five; just tell me who _else_ you like, too.

My apologies for the fact that the poll is not arranged in any logical order; the site automatically shuffles the choices. If there's a way to stop it from doing that, please let me know.

**2.** Now that you've met everyone, if there's an alliance you'd like to see or think would work well – even if it doesn't involve your own tribute(s) – please PM me and let me know.

**3.** Thank you to _BananasInLoungewear _and _torystory93 _for Aldo and Heloise, respectively.

* * *

**District Twelve Reaping  
****Do Not Trust to Hope**

* * *

**Pardeck Krell  
****Mentor, District Twelve**

He was the only one smiling. But that had never bothered Pardeck. They didn't understand. The people in the District – and most people in the Capitol – would expect him to be frustrated after eight years of tributes dying under his care. Eight years of watching District Twelve's children bleed and starve to death. Eight years of watching them lose.

But every year they lost was really another victory for Pardeck.

He had been a Peacekeeper here, in District Twelve, before the rebellion. His brother, one of the Capitol's finest generals, had died here. So, naturally, everyone had been shocked when the brother of General Barone Krell had volunteered to mentor District Twelve. And, as loss after loss came to the district, most in the Capitol greeted him with sympathy. Understanding.

But they didn't truly understand. This was his revenge. These people had taken his brother. So now he took theirs – their brothers, sisters, daughters, sons – and guided them to their deaths. That was his victory.

And if, someday, the district managed to produce its own victor, then that was still half a victory. Still one tribute dead. And the unhappy child would be left to mentor in his place, doomed to watch helplessly as his or her charges faced brutal deaths. And that was almost as satisfying a thought.

There was no way for him to lose.

Helenor Matim, District Twelve's escort, smiled warmly as the mayor finished his speech. Since there was no list of victors to read – and, if Pardeck had his way, it would stay that way for a long time – Helenor moved to the first bowl and drew a name. She unfolded it slowly, dramatically, while Pardeck waited to meet his next victim.

"Heloise Cache!"

As the crowd began to murmur, the twelve-year-old section parted to reveal a girl in a white blouse and blue skirt. She was rather tall and muscular for her age, and she walked to the stage with what was probably trying to be confidence, her brown eyes wide, her chin-length brown hair blowing a little in the chilly wind. She was trying to be brave, hoping that would save her. But Pardeck knew better. He was already planning her death.

Not that he needed to. The stronger tributes watching the replay of this reaping were probably doing that for him. The girl was larger and healthier than her fellow twelve-year-olds, but still no physical threat. No, they could take care of her without his help.

Helenor grinned at the young tribute, then reached into the next bowl and drew a name. "Aldo Retchwood!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a skinny boy in dark pants and a light button-up shirt. For a moment, he was still. Almost a statue. His dark blonde hair was the only thing that moved, waving messily around his face.

Two Peacekeepers moved towards the boy. One grabbed him by the arm. Instantly, the boy came to life, breaking free from the Peacekeeper's grasp. For a moment, Partreck thought he might make a run for it. He'd watched the other reapings; the District Two girl had tried to run, and the District Nine girl had even attacked the Peacekeepers.

But the boy made no attempt to run or to fight. After breaking free, he simply walked slowly to the stage on his own, fists clenched, breaking away whenever one of the Peacekeepers gave him a little shove, glaring at them with cold, blue eyes, barely containing his rage.

Then the boy's glare turned to Pardeck, and, in that split second, Pardeck thought he saw something familiar. Something he couldn't place. Something old.

Then it was gone, and the boy was shaking the girl's hand, his eyes now holding nothing but sympathy for his fellow tribute. Pardeck smiled. Sympathy didn't get anybody very far in the arena. It got tributes killed.

This was going to be another easy year.

* * *

**Aldo Retchwood  
****District Twelve Male**

He still felt like he was going to be sick.

Aldo wasn't sure which was worse: The thought that he would be killed, the thought that he would have to kill, or the way the Peacekeepers had grabbed him. As if they got some sort of pleasure out of leading him to his death. The same sort of perverse "pleasure" that a group of Peacekeepers had gotten from his mother seventeen years ago.

That technically meant the people around him were his half-siblings and step-father, but he didn't care. They were his. He was theirs. That was what mattered, not the fact that his older sister and little brother had their father's dark hair and brown eyes, while he had his mother's ice blue eyes and some Peacekeeper's lighter hair.

His grandmother handed him something – a small, origami bird. "It's a crane," she smiled. "Do you know why cranes fly in a v-shape, Aldo?"

He'd heard the story before, of course, and he was pretty sure that it was supposed to be about geese, not cranes, but he didn't have the heart to correct her. "Why, Nana?"

"It's the bird in front that fights the hardest against the wind. The ones behind him – he cuts a pathway for them. But no one can be strong all the time. So the birds will shift places mid-flight. The ones at the back will come forward, and the ones in the front will go to the back to rest. Do you understand?" She smiled her toothless grin.

Aldo nodded. He understood what she was trying to say. She always told him he worked too hard. Dropping out of school to take a job with his parents in the mines, taking extra tesserae secretly once his little brother was born. He was tired of being strong, but there was no one to come take his place at the front; they were already there with him.

Unless he won. Then he could take care of them. Then they would never have to scrape by again. Then they would have everything they needed.

They needed him. They needed him to come back. They needed him to be strong.

Just a little longer.

* * *

**Heloise Cache  
****District Twelve Female**

Her parents hadn't come.

It wasn't their fault, of course; Heloise knew that. If they had come, they would have been caught. And then they would have been killed. They hated hiding, but it was the only way for them to stay alive.

It was the Capitol's fault. Their fault she only got to see her parents once a week, when her aunt and uncle smuggled her into their hiding place. Part of her knew she should be grateful she still had parents at all, and an aunt an uncle to care for her. But she wasn't grateful. She was angry. Always angry.

It would have been different if her parents were dead. But they were alive. She _could_ have them, if only the Capitol were gone. Someday…

Someday soon, if her parents had their way. They were planning another rebellion. Teaching her everything they could. Soon, they would be ready. Soon.

"I'll be fine," Heloise insisted, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure her aunt and uncle or herself. "I'm good with a sword, so I've got a chance, right?"

Aunt Rosaline and Uncle Jemel shared a look. At last, Aunt Rosaline smiled encouragingly. "You're the best little swordsman I know." She threw her arms around her niece.

Uncle Jemel nodded. "Stay safe. Come home. We'll be waiting."

They would be waiting. And so would her parents. And her baby sister, waiting to be born.

They would all be waiting for her.

* * *

A few moments later, outside the door, Rosaline and Jemel held each other close. "We should have told her," Rosaline said quietly. "She's not a child anymore. Her dreams won't help her in the arena."

Jemel shook his head. "No. But hope will.

* * *

"_Do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands."_


	15. Train Ride: This Long March From Home

**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **After debating how to handle train rides, I decided on three chapters, with four districts per chapter. That way, we can get through them a little quicker than the reapings, but still give our district pairs a chance to interact a little with each other and their mentors before throwing them all together.

I wrote each district's section from one tribute's point of view. This doesn't mean that I liked that tribute better than the other – just that I thought their point of view would make more sense in this particular situation. I'll try my best to distribute points of view during training, interviews, and such evenly between tributes – with an occasional mentor, Gamemaker or President thrown in, as well.

Thank you to those of you who sent me suggestions for alliances. This is very helpful. Right now, I have a tentative "pack" of six, although they aren't your typical Career pack. I also have several smaller alliances forming. However, almost nothing is set in stone yet, so please feel free to PM me ideas if you have them.

Speaking of planning ahead, I have a tentative bloodbath list and a tentative final eight-or-so list. Both of these were partially influenced by the patterns I'm seeing in the "favorite tribute" poll, which, by the way, is still open on my profile. If you haven't voted already, I encourage you to do so. Your opinion matters! I still have the final say, of course – one of the perks of being the writer – but these are your tributes, and I write this for your entertainment as much as my own, so I do appreciate your input.

* * *

**Train Ride: Districts 1-4  
****This Long March from Home**

* * *

**Angus Spencer, 13  
****District One Male**

Angus sat on the couch, silent, his arms folded across his chest. Jade had barely said two words to him since they'd gotten on the train. He and Abstract were chatting at the table, swapping ideas about strategy, completely ignoring his presence. Just because she was a _volunteer. _What was so great about being a volunteer? As soon as they were in the arena, no one would care who had wanted to be there and who hadn't. Then they would see. Then he would show them.

"I'm just saying it never hurts to have a little extra help," Jade was saying. It seemed he and Abstract disagreed on the subject of allies.

Abstract scoffed. "That's what _you're _there for. That's what sponsors are there for."

"Sponsors can't help you team up against a stronger tribute," Jade pointed out.

"And sponsors can't stab you in the back," Abstract countered. "If I recall, your own ally didn't do _you_ much good. Tried to slit your throat while you slept."

Jade's hand went to a faint scar on his neck. "Okay, so you'd know enough to break off the alliance when there are only a few tributes left. Learn from my mistakes, yes, but that doesn't mean you have to make new ones. It's good to have someone to watch your back."

"Sure, watch the blood pouring after they take their knife out of it."

Jade sighed in exasperation. "At least watch the tape again. See if you think anyone has the potential."

"None of them have had my training!" Abstract insisted. "They have a few days to prepare. I've had years! Any of them would just slow me down."

"What about the other volunteers? Maybe some of them—"

Abstract glared. "Did you even _watch _the tape? 'She's my friend.' 'No one should have to face their family in the arena.' And don't even get me started on that Capitol girl in Six. Now, the District Four boy—"

"Don't even think about it," Jade interrupted. "I did some checking. His last name – Servitt. There was a Heaven Servitt in the Games four year ago. His sister—"

"So we have some common ground," Abstract shrugged.

"—was killed by the District One girl," Jade finished. "If he's still holding a grudge…"

"Point taken," Abstract nodded. "I'll watch out for him. Who was the last volunteer?"

"The girl from Five," Angus offered, startling both of them. "She has no idea what she's getting into."

Abstract cocked an eyebrow. "And you do?" She rose, turning on Jade. "Next thing I know, you'll be wanting me to ally with _him_." She gestured towards Angus, then turned and stormed into the next car.

A hint of a smile played on Jade's face. "So you _were _paying attention. Good. Come have a seat, Angus. Your turn."

"My turn?" Angus asked, surprised, taking a seat across from Jade at the table. He wasn't used to taking turns.

Jade nodded. "She's got her mind made up. I can still get her sponsors, of course, but she's convinced she knows as much as I do about strategy in the arena." He shrugged. "To be fair, she might be right. I'm not any older, and she's been training and studying the tapes of the old Games. There's only so much advice I can give her that she wouldn't be able to figure out on her own."

Angus nodded. She definitely had an advantage there. But she'd already made a bad move; she'd upset her mentor. This was his chance to get on Jade's good side. He put on his best innocent look. "I suppose … I could use a little advice."

"It certainly wouldn't hurt," Jade agreed. "Though you're definitely going to need a different angle. You probably won't get a lot of sponsors right away. People will underestimate you. That's good."

_Good? _But didn't sponsors help you win? His question must have shown on his face, because Jade continued. "I said 'right away.' Hold back a little during training. Let people think you're just another little kid who got reaped. They don't know you've had training. They'll just write you off. Then, once you get in the arena … surprise them."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. The audience loves surprises. Twists. Everyone can tell Abstract is a threat. You'll be the one they'll never see coming."

Angus nodded a little. He didn't like the idea of not being noticed. He wanted people to know how good he was. But part of him also knew Jade was right. "I can do that."

"Of course you can. And one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"As far as Abstract is concerned, you're just an annoying little kid who got reaped, and I'll treat you as such when she's around. She'll ignore you, but that's good. You don't want her to think you're a threat. She won't think twice about killing you."

Angus nodded. "That's one thing we have in common."

* * *

**Kiona Brink, 18  
****District Two Female**

It was all she could do not to yell his name when she saw him on the screen.

Kiona sat as still as she could, hoping neither Vester nor Equinox was watching her. Not likely. Equinox was in front of her, eyes glued to the screen, his expression passive, blank. Vester was off to the side, more intrigued by the tape than what was going on in the train car around him. "I don't think District Eight's ever had a volunteer before," he noted, almost mumbling.

District Eight. What was he doing in District Eight? If _he_ was alive, then maybe…

No. No, that was too much to hope for. But Zione. She could feel herself shaking despite her efforts to appear calm. He was alive.

Alive.

And on his way to the Hunger Games.

"No one should have to face their family in the arena." He'd always been the better liar. She relied on staying quiet, keeping her head down. Which was what she had to do now. Stay calm. Pretend. Just another reaping.

But once they were together, how could they pretend? How could they convince the audience they had just met?

The little girl – Nicoline, Kiona thought – hugged Zione just before the camera zoomed away. A silent thank you for saving her own brother. For being a hero.

A hero. That was it.

"Wow," Kiona said out loud, forcing a smile. "That's gotta be the bravest thing I've ever seen."

Her two companions turned, surprised. "Brave?" Equinox scoffed. "More like stupid. I bet they both die in the bloodbath."

_No, he won't_, Kiona thought. But what she said was, "Well, even if he does, he just saved that little girl's brother. Show a little respect."

Equinox shrugged and went back to watching District Nine's reaping. But Vester was still watching her, curious. Kiona wondered if she should have just kept her mouth shut. Maybe she should have left the lying to Zione. Maybe she should have waited.

Finally, Vester turned back to the screen with a sigh of pity as the District Ten girl fainted. "Maybe she'll faint in the arena and won't feel it when they kill her," he offered.

That caught her by surprise – and was a safer subject than the one she longed to discuss. But not with him. Not with someone who had become known in the arena for killing rebels slowly, painfully. "I would have thought you'd wait for her to wake up first," she observed.

A strange look crossed Vester's face. "Eight years ago, that might have been true. Now … well, all I can really do is wish her a quick death."

Kiona's stomach churned. Was that what he was wishing for them, too? A quick, painless death?

"What difference does it make?" Equinox asked with a shrug. "Dead is dead. Twenty-three of us will be dead by the end. Does it really matter _how_ we died?"

Vester thought that one over for a moment. "Not to the dead person, I suppose – not for more than a minute or two. But for those left behind … it matters. And for the one who did the killing. For a year or two, there were kills I was … truly proud of in the arena. The ones that made me famous. Two rebel soldiers. Rumor has it, they were scheduled to be executed, but the Capitol arranged for them to be sent into the Games, instead. I made it my … mission … to show that there was a difference between a regular execution and what I intended for them. I made it slow. Bloody. Painful. By the time I was done with them, no one would have recognized their faces – or any other part of them. The audience loved it…" He trailed off into silence.

Kiona shuddered. She remembered. She had been ten. Old enough to know that his victims had been rebels. Old enough to realize that there were people who wouldn't hesitate to do the same to her, if she was caught.

She had killed, during the rebellion. But it had always been quick. It had to be. She didn't want any screams. Didn't want to attract any attention. She had been a silent killer. But Vester … his victims had screamed for mercy. And, when that failed, they had screamed for death. Kiona had done what she had to for her family, for their cause. Vester had done what he wanted to.

Or had he? Had he wanted to? Or had he simply known that sponsors would love it? That it was the best way to get home?

"Oh, I enjoyed it – at the time," Vester said quietly, as if reading her expression. "I was terribly proud. I fought on the Capitol's side, you know, during the war. To me, they were just more rebel scum. Just one more battle to fight."

Rebel scum. If he only knew.

"But now?" she asked.

Vester shook his head. "Now … I can't exactly say that I regret killing them. Because I had to do that to stay alive. But sometimes … I do wish I'd done it quicker. Doesn't matter to them, of course – not anymore. But now that's what I hope for every time I see a tribute die in the Games. A quick death. A painless one. That's what I want for that girl in Ten … and for your hero in Eight, Kiona."

Kiona looked away. That wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want him to have a quick death. She wanted him to have a long life. With her. But that couldn't happen now. Not for both of them.

She clenched her fists tightly. Stupid. Why did he have to volunteer? They could both have lived – him in Eight and her in Two. Maybe. If she had won. At least then there would have been a chance. Now she wasn't even sure she'd want to win. Not if it meant he had to die.

But she couldn't say that. Not to them. "Me, too," she said quietly, hoping her lie was convincing enough. "I hope so, too."

* * *

**Tracer Norren, 18  
****District Three Male**

The others had already gone to bed.

Tracer knew he should get some sleep, but his mind was too busy. Planning. Debating possibilities. Strategies. Trying to come up with something new.

And it had to be something new. Because nothing that the tributes from District Three had done in the past had even come _close_ to working. Pacing, he went over it in his head. Most of the tributes had been loners. Shy. Awkward. They hadn't even wanted each other as allies. Maybe if he could find someone…

"Can't sleep?"

The voice startled him, and he whirled around to face his district partner. She took a step back. "I'm sorry if I scared you. We're both a bit jumpy, I guess."

Tracer nodded. "You were pretty quiet. I didn't hear you come in." Quiet. That was useful. "You couldn't sleep, either?"

Lina shook her head. "It was too quiet."

"Too quiet?" The train was making plenty of noise.

Lina smiled a little. "I guess I'm just used to more people. I have three brothers, so…"

Tracer nodded. "Yeah. Know the feeling. I've got a brother, too."

"I guess I should enjoy it while it lasts. There'll be plenty of noise in the arena."

Tracer laughed a little. "Well, hopefully we live long enough to hear it."

Lina nodded, then looked around. "I don't think Mayberry's going to be much help."

As much as he hated to admit it, Tracer knew she was probably right. So far, the extent of Mayberry's help had been giving them directions to the dining car and telling them which cars were theirs to sleep in. "So we'll just have to help ourselves," he agreed. He took a seat on the couch.

Lina looked him over skeptically. "You want to help each other?"

Tracer shrugged. "I didn't mean that we have to stick together in the arena or anything. But we could use a plan, some advice – anything. And if our mentor isn't going to do her job, we need all the help we can get."

She couldn't exactly argue with that. She took a seat in a nearby chair, tucking her knees to her chest. "What did you have in mind?"

Tracer shrugged. "I'm not sure, exactly." He was sure, but he didn't want her to know exactly how much he'd already thought out. "Maybe we could figure out what to do during training, what we need to learn. I don't know about you, but I don't know the first thing about weapons."

Lina nodded. "Me, neither. Unless you count using knives for cooking."

"I guess that could count. More than I've done. But my point was, are we really going to be able to learn enough about a sword or a bow or a knife in a few days to hold our own against someone with _real_ experience?"

"I guess not."

"So maybe there's something else that would be more useful. Last year's arena was a forest – with a lot of rivers."

"So you think we could learn how to swim in a few days?" Lina asked wryly.

"No, but we could probably learn a thing or two about which sort of plants are safe," Tracer shrugged. "Or maybe how to start a fire. Or how to make traps for small animals. Point is, there's a lot to learn. So maybe we could split it up, then come back and show each other what we've learned at the end of the day."

Lina cocked an eyebrow. "That's awfully trusting of you."

"It's awfully practical of me. And, to be perfectly honest, you don't seem like the type who's going to stab me in the back."

"Neither do you," Lina admitted. "But at least one of us is going to die eventually."

"Eventually," Tracer agreed. "But not in the next couple days. Maybe we should just take it a day at a time, see how it goes. Any time you want to call it off and do your own thing, that's fine. But I think it would be in both our interests to help each other as long as we can."

"As long as we can," Lina agreed.

There was still doubt on her face, but that was all right. He had his doubts, too. But even if they ended up parting ways early on, he had still made a small gesture of friendship. And it would be harder, he reasoned, to consider killing someone who had at least been friendly to you. Someone you had talked to and laughed a little with.

Of course, it worked both ways. He couldn't picture himself killing her. He had a hard time imagining himself killing _anyone_, but he knew, in the back of his mind, that he would have to in order to get home.

He just had to hope someone else would kill her first.

* * *

**Ella Halliwell, 17  
****District Four Female**

"Hooked him right in the jaw," Mags grinned. "Then I dragged him to shore, took my knife, and split him open right on the spot. My first kill in the arena!"

Ella giggled a little. "I don't think fish count, Mags."

Her mentor shrugged. "It did to me. That little fish was the difference between life and death. Don't ignore that. You can be the best tribute in the arena with a sword or a bow, but that won't make a lick of difference if you can't find food – unless you're planning on slaughtering all the other tributes before you have a chance to get hungry."

"I'm not planning on _slaughtering_ anyone," Ella admitted.

Mags nodded. "Trust me, that's what I said at first. Stay out of the way. Avoid everyone else. Survive. And it worked pretty well for a while. But they don't let it stay that way forever. When there are only four or five of you left, they don't _let_ you stay out of each others' way. They force you together. And that's when you find out what you're really capable of."

"And do you think I am?"

"No," came Mars' voice from across the room, the first word he'd said since they'd gotten on the train, despite Mags' attempts to draw him into the conversation. "You were crying during the reaping, for goodness' sake. You don't stand a chance."

Mags glared at the older boy. "That's what everyone said about me, too. Just little old Mags, the fisherman's daughter. Little Mags, who'll die in the bloodbath. I was fifteen. I'm still younger than both of you. Would you think _I_ had it in me to kill?"

"No," Ella admitted. Under other circumstances, she would never have guessed that the girl across from her, smiling and laughing and poking fun at herself, was a victor. That she had trapped one tribute in a net lined with fishhooks and slit his throat. That she had lured four others to their deaths in a river.

"But I _am_," Mags pointed out. "The Games change you, Ella, whether you live or die. And you can either fight that change, struggle against it with all your might, swear never to let the Games get the better of you … or you can accept it. Think of the Games like … like water."

"Water?" Mars asked sarcastically, and Ella had to admit that she agreed. Now, if Mags had said 'fire' or 'lightning' or 'a hurricane,' then maybe. But water?

"Water," Mags repeated. "The ocean. The tide. What does the ocean do to rocks?"

Ella hesitated. She hadn't expected a pop quiz. "Erodes them?"

Mags smiled. "Exactly. It wears them down. Tears them apart, eventually. _Because_ they're strong. _Because_ they don't change with the tide." She threw a glance in Mars' direction. "_That's_ what the Games do. They don't break you immediately – not usually. They wear you away bit by bit, and if you don't accept that, then, eventually, you crack." She turned back to Ella. "So you're not a rock. That's okay. You don't want to be. As soon as you think you're invincible – that's when you've lost. I spent every day in the arena afraid that it would be my last. And _that_ kept me alive."

"Fear kept you alive," Ella repeated. Maybe that had worked well for Mags, but Ella didn't exactly have a good history with fear. It definitely wasn't something that she wanted controlling her actions.

"Fear and hope," Mags agreed. "You need them both. When you're out on the ocean, you need an anchor. A lighthouse. A reason to come back. What do you want to come back to?"

"My family," Ella replied instinctively. She could only imagine how her mother and father would feel if she died. But that was nothing special. Nothing different. Surely all the other tributes were thinking the same thing. "But what makes my reasons any better than anyone else's? What makes my family more important than theirs?"

"Nothing," Mags admitted. "You're absolutely right – there are twenty-three other tributes out there who want the same thing. To come home."

Mars scoffed, disgusted. "Maybe some of us don't. Ever think of that, Little Miss I-Want-to-Get-Back-to-my-Family?" He stormed off to the next car.

Mags winced. "I'll apologize to him later."

Ella shrugged. "Nothing to apologize for. You were telling the truth. If he wants to make it back, he needs a good reason."

Mags shook her head. "I'm not sure he wants to make it back, Ella. Which means there's only so much I can do for him. But you had a good point. Most people have a reason. Usually a good one. And recognizing that puts you a step ahead of everyone who's convinced _their_ reason is the best. As soon as you realize that everyone else is just as desperate to stay alive as you are, you start to understand just how dangerous the Games really are."

Ella nodded. She hadn't really thought about it like that. If she had cut off her own finger in a moment of panic – not even a life-or-death situation – how much more dangerous would the other tributes be when they were fighting for their lives? "Thanks, Mags."

The younger girl smiled. "You're welcome." She rose and started in the direction Mars had gone.

"Mags?" Ella asked. Mags turned. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"What was your reason – for wanting to come home? Do you have family?"

Mags shook her head. "My mother died during the rebellion – I don't really remember her. My father was killed in a shipwreck when I was twelve. My aunt and uncle took care of me after that, but we were never really close – I was just another mouth to feed."

"What, then?"

Mags smiled sheepishly. "It'll sound stupid."

"I won't tell a soul."

"The sea," Mags admitted. "I wanted to smell the sea again. All those rivers in the arena? Fresh water. No waves. No salt air. I didn't want to die like that. I always hoped that, when I died, I'd be able to hear the sea."

Ella smiled. "I hope that's not for a long, long time."

Mags nodded. "You, too, Ella. You, too."

* * *

"_The enemy? His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is, where he came from, and if he was really evil at heart, what lies or threats led him on this long march from home, and if he would rather have stayed there, in peace."_


	16. Train Ride: Home is Behind

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "favorite tribute" poll on my profile if you haven't already, and to PM me alliance ideas if you think you see a good fit. Thank you to those of you who have done so already; it helps.

* * *

**Train Ride: Districts 5-8  
****Home is Behind**

* * *

**Brie Fallyn, 17  
****District Five Female**

He wasn't what she had imagined.

Rumors about the last survivor of the Swallot family were spoken in whispers. The stories were dark. During the last days of the rebellion, the rebel force had grown desperate. They had taken the youngest Swallot children – a twin boy and girl – hostage. By the time their father had sent a squad to rescue them, it was too late. Stories about what happened to his wife conflicted. Some said she left him. Some said she killed herself. Some said he killed her in a fit of rage.

Then, two years ago, Odenn Swallot had died, and the stories surrounding his death were equally shrouded in mystery. The official story was that he had died in his sleep, but no one believed that. Most agreed that he had been killed by one of the last remnants of the rebel force in District Five. There was much speculation about what had happened to those unlucky rebels, but Brie didn't really want to know.

And here he was, the last Swallot boy, wolfing down biscuits as if he hadn't eaten in days. He was smaller than she had expected – smaller than Jai, even though her brother was a year younger. But there was still something about him that made her want to keep her distance.

Which actually suited her just fine, because apparently Tania felt the same way. So while Harakuise sat at the table, watching, Brie sat on the couch with her mentor.

"Everyone knows you seemed desperate to volunteer," Tania was saying, her voice quiet and thin. "But no one knows why. You're a mystery to them. That's good – they'll be watching you."

Desperate. That pretty much summed it up. She wasn't eager. Excited. Just desperate. Desperate enough to go into the arena and face twenty-three teenagers who wanted to kill her. Desperate enough to kill them so that her brother could live.

"So it would help if I knew," Tania continued. "Why _did_ you volunteer?"

Brie glanced over at her district partner, wondering if she should say just now. Then again, she would have to tell all of Panem eventually, so it wouldn't really hurt if he knew. "My brother's going to be executed. But not if I win. Not if I'm a victor. Then they wouldn't hurt him."

As she'd expected, that piqued the boy's interest. "Executed? For what?"

"Our father has been sick. We haven't been bringing in as much money. Jai just wanted to get him some more food, but the Peacekeepers caught him."

Harakuise nodded and went back to his food; apparently, petty thievery wasn't worth his interest. Good. His attention was the last thing she needed.

"Okay, we can work with that," Tania agreed. "But the story could use a little embellishment. You don't want to sound like you'd be using your position as a victor to help your brother avoid justice."

"Justice? He's just a kid!"

"Brie, they watch twenty-three kids die on their screen every year. Do you think they'd think twice about watching one die because he stole some food? And the Peacekeepers back in the district – they won't want to look like they're bending the rules for a victor."

Brie stared, shocked. She had just assumed that if she told the truth, people would understand. "So what do I say?"

"That he was arrested for something much more serious." Brie nearly jumped; the voice was Harakuise's. "Something that would make stealing a little food pale in comparison. Say that he was framed, and that you can use the money rewarded to the victor to pay for an investigation to prove his innocence. Which, of course, you can, because he _is_ innocent."

"But he was only arrested for smuggling food."

Harakuise shrugged. "According to the records at the moment, yes. But with a right word in the right place, records can be changed. Say the word, and your dear little brother could be charged with murder, treason, arson, espionage – whatever story you think would work best."

Brie eyed the boy skeptically. Did he really have that sort of influence? And, more importantly, why was he offering to help? The Swallot family wasn't exactly known for generosity. What did he want? "Why?"

Harakuise shrugged. "Why not?" But his eyes said something different. If he helped her now, she would be in his debt. And he looked like someone who wouldn't forget to come and collect.

But she didn't really have much choice. Tania was right; Capitolites wouldn't understand having to steal food in order to eat. They wouldn't understand how unfair the law was any more than the understood that it was inhumane to force twenty-four kids to kill each other.

"All right," Brie agreed. Then, reluctantly, she added, "Thank you, Harakuise."

The boy smiled, but that was even more unnerving than his cold stare. "Oh, it's my pleasure, Miss Fallyn. My pleasure entirely."

* * *

**Pike Carter, 12  
****District Six Male**

"That was so exciting!" Prius exclaimed as the tape ended. "Did you see the tributes from District One? The girl looks like she'll be a tough one! And that little boy was sooo cute! The cute ones are the best, especially when they turn out to be ruthless killers! And he's almost as young as you. Isn't that great!"

"Fantastic," Pike managed, his head reeling. He didn't want to think about ruthless killers.

Fortunately, Aron came to his rescue. "How about a snack?" their mentor offered, resting an old, withered hand on Pike's shoulder as they made their way to the table. They sat down together on a bench, and Prius took a seat on the other side of the assortment of food.

Prius was almost as excited about the food as she was about the Games. "Do you know how long it's been since I've had _actual _Capitol food? It must be almost six months since our last trip back to the Capitol. No offense, Pike, but the food in your district is so…" She searched for the right word.

"Hard to come by?" Pike offered with a wry smile.

The sarcasm was lost on Prius. "Exactly!" she grinned. "Proper food, at least. Now eat up! You look like you haven't eaten in days! You'll need all the help you can get to build up some strength for the arena."

The arena. He didn't want to think about that. Not yet. Watching the other reapings hadn't helped. All he could see were nearly two dozen older, stronger, healthier tributes who might be the one to kill him.

"There'll be plenty of time for thinking about the arena later," Aron said with a gentle smile. "In the meantime, Prius, why don't you tell us why your family came to District Six?"

Pike shot Aron a silent _thank you_ as Prius began explaining her father's job. Most of it, she rattled off too quickly for Pike to catch, but he did gather that he was some sort of businessman who helped organize the transport of goods from the various districts to the Capitol – which explained why they sometimes lived in the districts for a while – and that their move to District Six had something to do with an oil well.

"He's always wanted to see District Six, of course," Prius continued. "He's had this old antique car forever, but he's never been able to get it to run. He brought it with us when we came, and even found someone who'd be willing to fix it up. He was going to go have a look at it after the reaping."

Pike blinked. "An old car? Yellow roadster? Missing pretty much every important part of the engine?"

"How did you know?" Prius asked. "Oh, I hope he still remembers to pick it up – he was so upset when I volunteered, I hope he doesn't forget. Maybe once I win, I can ride in that during my victory tour. That would be—"

"Ironic," Pike finished. "Considering I helped fix it."

"You did?"

Pike nodded. "Well, it was mostly my brother, Axel. But I found a lot of the parts." Probably best not to tell her _where_ he had found most of them – in the junkyard. He hoped her father had still bought the car, at least. He had offered Axel an unusually generous amount for it.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Prius gushed. "Oh, he'll just _have_ to buy it now that we're in the Games together. Aron, do you think I could send him some sort of message? Before he has a chance to leave the district?"

Aron nodded. "Of course. Vanesse would be the one to ask, though – she's in the next car."

Prius was gone almost before he could finish the sentence. "That was nice of her," Pike admitted.

Aron smiled. "Yes, it was. But she just sees a new toy. She doesn't realize that money could keep your family fed for … well, a long time. Still, it's something."

"It's hard to believe she wants to kill people for fun," Pike said quietly, scooting a little closer to his mentor and gulping down as much bread as he dared with his stomach churning.

"She doesn't understand what death is really like." Aron put an arm around Pike's shoulders. "Most of the people in the Capitol don't. Killing has become a sport to them – an end in itself, rather than a means. And most people in the districts hate them for it. But I pity them."

"Is that any better?" Pike asked without thinking. He hated being pitied. People sometimes looked at him and his family with pity on the streets. Pity because they were poor. Pity because his father was dead. And now people looked at him the same way – pity because he was on his way to his death.

"It's better," Aron said softly. "My grandfather told me something very important once. He said, 'Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart.' Remember that, Pike, in the arena. People could use a little more pity in there. And you may find someone who needs it even more than you."

Pike nodded. He wasn't sure he understood. But he was too tired – physically and mentally – to think about it now. He looked up at Aron, who drew him close just like Azure would have. Pike snuggled up against the old man's chest and closed his eyes.

He dreamed of Prius riding around in an old yellow roadster.

* * *

**Sterling Therms, 18  
****District Seven Male**

There were people who wanted him to live.

Sterling tried to remind himself of that as the train bore them steadily closer to the Capitol, where millions of people were waiting to see him die, instead. But maybe there would be people who would want to help him. People who would want to see a father return to his daughter.

He was surprised to find that Hazel and Arithrim seemed to be among them – or, at least, they wanted to see one of their charges return. All four of them – the two tributes, their mentor, and their escort – were seated around a large table. Almost like a family.

Sterling shook the thought from his mind. No, that wouldn't help, thinking of the girl next to him as family, as someone he should protect. He couldn't afford to start protecting people – not if he wanted to come home.

Arithrim served everyone another helping of turkey and stuffing. Calmly. Casually. As if this sort of thing happened every day. "So, Cahra, can you tell us some things you're good at? Anything at all that might be helpful in the arena, even if it seems insignificant."

Sterling recognized the look on his face. He was trying to be gentle, encouraging, with his younger tribute. Letting her go first to let her know that they weren't going to ignore her simply because Sterling was physically stronger. Sterling liked that.

But Cahra didn't seem to appreciate the gesture. "Yeah, I can do this!" She grabbed a knife from the turkey platter and flung it across the room. The knife clattered against a bookshelf and dropped to the ground. Sterling glanced at Hazel, who seemed to be trying to decide whether that had been Cahra's intended target or not. But the girl was grinning as if that was exactly what she had meant to do.

"That's good," Arithrim smiled, then quickly changed the subject. "And it seems you have fast reflexes. That's probably even more useful. And someone small like you – probably pretty fast."

Cahra nodded. "Very. I can climb trees, too. And I can start fires. That's why I'm here."

Arithrim blinked, as if that didn't quite add up, but decided to move on. "What about you, Sterling? You look like you've done your share of physical work."

Sterling nodded. "I'm pretty good with an axe."

"That'll help," Hazel agreed. "There won't always be axes in the arena, but you can usually find something similar."

"And there won't always be wood for a fire," Arithrim added, glancing at Cahra. "Or trees to climb. But there will probably be something similar. Maybe a bit of brush or grass for a fire, instead. Or a cliff instead of a tree. Adaptability is the name of the game."

"Adaptability and likability," Hazel nodded. "Cahra, you said at the reaping that you weren't afraid. Good. Keep that up. But try to direct it at the other tributes – not the audience. You don't want to seem like you're angry at them."

"But I _am_ angry at them," Cahra said matter-of-factly.

Hazel and Arithrim exchanged a look. "But you don't want _them_ to know that," Arithrim said patiently.

Cahra crossed her arms stubbornly. "I don't care _who_ knows it," she insisted, her voice growing louder. "They don't scare me. The Games don't scare me. The Capitol doesn't scare me!" She seized another knife from the table and threw it wildly in the escort's direction.

Arithrim dodged instinctively, but there was no need. Hazel reached up and caught the knife in mid-air. She slammed it down hard against the table. "Save it for the arena," she glared. "This is no time to lose your temper. I'm going to do my best to help you, but you also have to help yourself. And you won't get yourself _any_ sponsors if you go out there and tell them how angry you are at the Capitol. What you _will_ get is the Gamemakers' attention, and that's _bad_."

Cahra rose angrily and stormed off, and Hazel followed. Sterling looked to Arithrim for an explanation. "Don't mind her," the escort assured him. "The little girl hit a sore spot, that's all. Hazel's games came down to her and a boy from District One. The boy – Mosaic – had made it pretty well-known that his father was a rebel. Their last fight was a close one, but he had her pinned and was about to kill her when the Mutts were released. She's convinced the Capitol didn't want the son of a rebel for their victor – at least, not one who was proud of it." He shook his head. "Hazel just doesn't want Cahra to make the same mistake." He smiled a little. "So if _you_ have any issues with the Capitol, Sterling, now is the time to bury them."

Sterling shook his head. Of course he didn't _like _the Capitol, but he could pretend to, if that was what it took. "I just want to go home."

"I'm glad someone's got their priorities straight." Arithrim tossed him an apple. "We can work with that."

* * *

**Nicoline Peters, 13  
****District Eight Female**

She had always secretly thought that Lander hated her. Now she was sure of it.

"Your best chance is to run." Lander sat across the table from Nicoline and Zione, munching on a plate of cherry tomatoes, the juice dripping down his chin. "Run. Hide. And hope it's a while before they find you." He fixed his eyes on her. "But they _will_ find you. Sooner or later. So maybe it's better to die sooner rather than late. Maybe you shouldn't even run. Maybe—"

"That's enough!" Zione cut in suddenly. "You're scaring her."

He was right. All the relief she had felt over Shaw's safety had melted away, leaving only terror. But Lander didn't care. "She _should_ be scared," he glared at the older boy. "This is a fight to the death, in case you hadn't noticed. She's going to die. And you? You're no better. What you did at the reaping – one of the stupidest things I've ever seen."

"Fortunately, the Capitol likes stupid," Lander continued. "All that wanna-be-hero nonsense – they'll eat it up. And it might just be enough to save your sorry life. _If_ you have the skills to back it up. Or maybe you didn't think about what would happen _after_ you saved the little brat's life."

Zione shook his head. "Oh, I thought about it. And, believe me, it's worth it."

Despite her fear, Nicoline couldn't help but admire the older boy. He considered Shaw's life worth the risk of his own. Nicoline smiled a little. Maybe Lander was right. Maybe she couldn't win. But if she couldn't, then she wanted Zione to.

"If you say so," Lander shrugged. "I suppose it's your life to throw away. So we'll present you as a hero, then. The gallant knight who wants to save everyone in the arena."

"But I can't save everyone," Zione objected. "There's only one victor."

Lander rolled his eyes. "Of _course_ there's only one victor – in the end. But that doesn't mean you can't protect people for a while. Form a group. Watch each other's backs. Tell them it's all for protection. They'll love it. Keep them alive. Protect them as long as you can. Until you're the only ones left."

"And then?"

"And then you kill them, you imbecile! The only thing the Capitol will love more than a hero is a villain. A fallen idol. Give them that, and they won't be able to resist."

Nicoline shifted uneasily in her seat. Zione looked uncomfortable, as well. Then again, she never felt very comfortable around Lander. She doubted anyone did. But he was their mentor. The only one they had. And he had just presented a rather thought-out strategy. "What can I do?" she asked.

Lander cocked an eyebrow, as if noticing her again. "You? Sing his praises, kid. He's your hero now; let everyone know it. Direct all the attention to him. The more people ignore you, the better. Trust me, you don't want the attention. Be invisible."

Nicoline started to object. Invisible people didn't get sponsors. Or allies. Or anything that could keep them alive. He was just abandoning her without a second thought.

After a moment, Lander wandered off, leaving the two of them alone. "Well, he's a piece of work," Zione commented.

Nicoline smiled. At least, either way this went, she wouldn't have to work for Lander any more. "Tell me about it," she agreed.

"He does have a point, though," Zione observed. "What might work for me won't work for you. And he's right – you should run. Hide. Try to go unnoticed. That way, none of the other tributes will target you."

"Including you," Nicoline pointed out. She hadn't really given that much thought – the idea that he might be the one to kill her. She was starting to get used to the idea that she might die. But she didn't want him to be the one to do it.

Apparently, he agreed. "Just … try to put as much distance between us as possible. Once we're in the arena, that is. Until then, we could probably both use a little company that's more pleasant than him." He indicated the direction Lander had gone.

Nicoline nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. And … you don't have to do what he said. Treat me like a hero, that is. I'm sure the plan will work just as well without—"

"But you _are_ a hero," Nicoline pointed out. "You saved my brother. I _want _them to know that." She shrugged. "It's a good plan."

"For both of us," Zione agreed. "But I'm only the hero until I have to become the villain."

"Maybe you won't have to," Nicoline shrugged. But she already knew her words were empty. Heroes didn't come out of the arena. People like Lander did. Scared. Angry. Broken. And the possibility that she might become that scared her more than the idea of dying.

Zione shook his head. "I will. When I have to. That's the way it works in the Games. If you're not willing to change, you don't last long."

"Yeah, you're right," Nicoline nodded.

But what she meant was, _So be it_.

* * *

"_Home is behind, the world ahead,  
And there are many paths to tread  
__Through shadows to the edge of night,  
__Until the stars are all alight.  
__Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,  
__All shall fade, all shall fade."_


	17. Train Ride: The Strength of Your Hearts

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Train rides are done! These were a lot of fun to write, and significantly easier than the reapings. Dialogue comes more naturally to me than description, so these went a lot quicker. Having a long weekend also helped.

I've picked my bloodbath tributes. Since this is one of the earlier Games, I'm imagining the bloodbath a bit differently than the later ones. The location of the Cornucopia will also play a role. (Feel free to go back and scour the first chapter for clues about what I mean by that; I've had that bit planned for a while.)

With that in mind, there's a new poll on my profile for you to vote on who you _think_ will die in the bloodbath (not necessarily who you _want_ to die in the bloodbath). This is not likely to change my decision about who will die, but I'm curious about who you think are the likeliest candidates. The only reason this would affect my choice is if the majority of people either guess _everyone_ correctly or don't guess_ any_ of the right people. That would let me know that my choices are either too predictable or completely unbelievable. I'm aiming for somewhere in between.

* * *

**Train Ride: Districts 9-12  
****The Strength of your Hearts**

* * *

**Antiquity Kirsh, 14  
****District Nine Female**

It didn't take long for them to decide their mentor was an idiot.

Antiquity and Husk had spent the last half hour or so listening to Belonessa gush about how wonderful they were and how one of them was sure to win this year. Unfortunately, she didn't seem to have any idea _how_ they would win – aside from being perfect and strong and amazing and a whole long list of other qualities that Antiquity was fairly sure didn't describe either of them.

She knew she should be annoyed; this woman was their best chance for survival, after all, and she was completely clueless. But, eventually, Antiquity simply tuned out their mentor's chattering and settled down to watch the tape of the reapings for the third time.

Husk, on the other hand, was annoyed enough for both of them. He sat at the table, glaring at Belonessa, pounding a knife into the bench beside him. At first, Belonessa tried to convince him to stop, but, eventually, she decided it was good practice and went on beaming, delighted that he was so eager.

"Oh, my friends will all be so proud of me," Belonessa giggled over the sound of the tape. "District Nine's first successful mentor. Of course, the only problem with that is that I won't get to do it again next year. It'll be your turn – one of you. Oh, your district will be _so_ happy to finally have a victor. Maybe they'll move me to another district without a victor – maybe Six. The mentor there is so old, I'm sure he wouldn't mind some fresh ideas. Maybe I could keep moving around the districts until everyone has a victor. Wouldn't that be exciting?"

"Enough!" Husk finally shouted. "At least if one of us wins, the next tributes won't be stuck with _you_! Do you have _any_ idea at all about how to actually _win_ the Games?"

"Of course – kill as many tributes as you can, as quickly as you can."

"That's it? That's all you've got? A three-year-old could have told me that much! You have no idea what you're doing!"

"Of course I do, dear. You just wait and see."

Waiting didn't exactly sound like Husk's strong suit. "There has to be some way to get a different mentor!" he insisted.

"Not while I'm here!" Belonessa said cheerfully.

There was a crash. A scream. Antiquity turned, startled, to see Belonessa on the floor, a knife in her chest, a pool of red forming around her. Husk gave the body a little kick. "How about now?"

Antiquity stared. "You just—"

Husk rolled his eyes. "Come on. Tell me you didn't want me to."

Antiquity took a few hesitant steps closer. Belonessa's body lay still, lifeless, at the boy's feet. She hadn't seen that much blood in years. Not since…

Just as she was bending down to get a closer look, their escort, Simmity, walked in. And screamed. And ran back the way she had come, probably to get some Peacekeepers. "What are you going to do?" Antiquity asked.

Husk shrugged. "Nothing. What can they do to me? Send me to a fight to the death? Oh, wait – that's where we're going, anyway."

"But now we don't have a mentor."

Husk shrugged. "Was she really doing us any good?"

Antiquity stared at him. Of course she wasn't. But she hadn't really been doing any harm, either; she was just annoying. "You shouldn't have killed her."

She wasn't sure why she said it. It would probably only make Husk mad. But she felt like someone should say it. Someone needed to say it. Belonessa had been innocent. Irritating, but innocent.

Antiquity knelt beside their mentor, staring at the blood. Just like two years ago. But what she had done then – she had only been protecting herself. What Husk had just done was murder.

There was a difference.

There _was _a difference, she told herself as the Peacekeepers came. Two of them took the body. Two of them led Husk away to a different car. But not her. They left her, kneeling in a pool of blood, staring into the distance. Because there was a difference between them.

There had to be.

* * *

Miles away, a phone rang. Nerond Pel, District Nine's mentor for eight years, picked up. "Hello?"

"Nerond?" The voice on the other end was frantic. Simmity. "Nerond, it's about Belonessa."

Nerond sighed. The Games hadn't even begun yet. How much trouble could she have gotten herself into already? "What did she do this time, Simmity?" Belonessa hadn't been his first choice to replace him. Or his second. But nobody else had wanted the job.

"She's dead." Simmity was hysterical now. "One of the tributes – he killed her. With a table knife!"

There was silence for a moment. "Hello?" Simmity asked. "Hello, Nerond? Did you hear what I just said?"

"Yes, I did," Nerond said quietly, a smile creeping over his face. "You just told me one of our tributes has potential. I'll meet you when you arrive; you can fill me in on everything."

"But he killed—"

"That's what they're _supposed _to do, Simmity. You let me worry about how to spin it for the audience. Just get the tributes here ... and don't let them kill anyone else. Tell them to save it for the arena. Then we'll have a show."

* * *

**Libby Hall, 15  
****District Ten Female**

She felt better after about six or seven cookies.

Glenn had warned them both about the rich Capitol food, but, so far, it hadn't had any effect other than calming her nerves. She and Glenn now sat across from each other, sharing a large and rather delicious chocolate cake. Wulfric stood a little ways away, his arms crossed, smirking a little. Libby wasn't sure whether he was upset that they were eating – they'd invited him to have some, of course – or simply amused that they could eat at a time like this.

"So, Glenn," the boy said at last. "When do we get some amazing, lifesaving advice for how to survive in the arena?"

Glenn, caught with his mouth full, turned a bit red before swallowing and looking away. "I … I haven't had much of what you'd call … success … getting tributes out alive. I was lucky. The other tributes ignored me. Later, I found out that the last two killed each other. Each of them thought the other was the last one left. I guess they lost count somewhere along the line. I was on the other side of the arena."

Wulfric scoffed, still smirking. "I thought as much." He lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, no doubt already forming his own plan that had nothing to do with being _lucky_.

Libby sighed. So it was hopeless. Even her mentor couldn't help her.

At the same time, they both reached over to cut another piece of cake. The knife clattered to the floor as their hands brushed against it. "Can't even use a knife to cut a piece of cake," Wulfric mumbled. Libby wasn't sure which of them he was talking about. Not that it mattered.

Not that it mattered. Of course. Glenn couldn't help her learn how to use a knife. But that was all right. She didn't want to kill anyone, anyway. "Okay," she said, picking up the knife and wiping it on the tablecloth before cutting the cake. "Okay, so you can't really teach us much about weapons. But winning your Games had to have been more than just luck. You stayed hidden. How?"

Glenn looked up, startled, as if no tribute had ever bothered to ask him that before. "I … I just didn't draw attention to myself. No one thought I was a threat. At the Cornucopia, I got away as quickly as I could and ran until I found a place to hide."

"What sort of place?" Libby asked encouragingly. "It must have been good."

"Not really. It was just a marshy area – swampy plants all around. No one else wanted to go there. It was wet, it stank, there were lots of bugs. Everyone else just avoided it."

"What did you do for food?"

"Some of the plants were edible. Believe me, I was a lot skinnier by the end of the Games than I am now."

Libby giggled. "I guess I will be, too … if I win."

If she won. For a moment, listening to Glenn, it had seemed like a possibility.

"How did you know which ones were edible?" Wulfric asked. The boy was sitting up now, curious.

Glenn shrugged. "I … I guess I just knew. My parents were medics during the rebellion. I knew which plants they used for medicine, so anything that looked like those was probably edible. Sometimes I just guessed. Maybe I just got lucky."

Libby shook her head. "Nobody's that lucky. You won, fair and square."

Glenn stared at her. "But I didn't—"

"Didn't what? Kill? Who said you had to? The rules say the last tribute alive wins, not the tribute who killed the most. You won. And if you could … then maybe I have a chance."

Wulfric took a seat next to her. "Maybe both of us do. What else did your parents teach you?"

Glenn shrugged. "Basic first aid. I can treat cuts and bruises. Stop bleeding. Clean out wounds so they don't get infected." He smiled a little in Libby's direction. "Treat fainting spells."

Libby smiled. "Can you teach us?"

Glenn nodded. "I'll teach you what I can. And, during training, there'll be stations for different survival skills. A lot of tributes ignore them, but that's where I spent most of my time. Well, that and the snack table. Doesn't hurt to store up food before the arena."

Wulfric smirked a little as he served himself a piece of cake. "I think Libby's got a head start on that one."

Libby felt her face turning red. Glenn glared at Wulfric. "So what if she does? I bet she's full of surprises."

Wuflric shrugged. "I didn't mean anything by it." He returned to the couch with his cake.

"What kind of surprises?" Libby asked, confused. She'd never really thought of herself as anything unusual – certainly not in a way that would be useful in the arena.

"The way you treated me – like you really believed I could help. No one's ever done that before."

Libby shrugged. That was nothing special. "You just seemed like you could use a little encouragement."

Glenn nodded. "Exactly. People could use a bit more of that in the arena. Remember that, Libby. You may find someone who needs it even more than I did."

* * *

**Sher Haimish, 17  
****District Eleven Male**

"But it's the solar system!"

Lying on the couch, Sher rolled his eyes. He'd made the mistake of comparing the Games' existence to the Sun going around the Earth. Apparently, Lordez was under the impression that the reverse was true. Not that it mattered one way or the other, but she seemed to think it was terribly important.

"Does it matter?" he asked, growing more irritated. "Is that really going to help either of us survive in the arena? No. So we need to focus on what _is_ going to help – and that's knowing everything we can about our opponents."

"The other tributes," Lordez agreed, plopping down in a chair next to him.

"No, the _Gamemakers_. Of course the other tributes! Although, actually, that's a good point – we shouldn't forget about the Gamemakers, either. What do we know about them?"

"Helius Florum," Ivy cut in. "It's his fifth year as head Gamemaker."

"What happened to the one before him?"

Ivy shrugged. "His arenas were too dull. Mine was basically one large field. But they say the last straw was when a tribute won just by hiding during the Fourth Games; apparently, even the Gamemakers forgot about him. That didn't sit too well with the audience."

Sher smiled a little, pressing the tips of his fingers together and closing his eyes. "And since then, what have the arenas been like?"

Lordez sighed. "You really _haven't_ been paying attention. Four years ago, it was a mountain chain with a series of caves. The girl won by trapping her opponents and then cutting their throats. The next year was more of a field, but with patches of quicksand and a volcano in the middle – killed half the tributes who were left when it erupted. Two years ago was a desert. The boy from Two – I think he was a volunteer – had a lot of sponsors who sent him water, so he lasted while the other tributes were going insane from the thirst; he had no trouble hunting them down. Last year was a forest with a lot of rivers – some of them shallow, some much deeper. The girl from Four lured a group of them into a river after her. She could swim, and they couldn't, and the current was too strong for them to get away."

"Fascinating," Sher noted, his eyes still closed. "You've been planning this even longer than I thought."

"Look, Sherlacham—"

"Please, just Sher is fine."

"Okay, Sher. I don't mind pretending for the cameras, but Sonya's the only reason I volunteered. Really."

Sher shrugged. "Suit yourself. In that case, you simply have a morbid fascination with an event that most people would prefer to forget. That's almost as good. I bet you can even tell me how Ivy won."

There was a moment of silence – Lordez and Ivy were probably exchanging a look. But, sure enough, Lordez had the answer. "She was good with a crossbow. She ran to the Cornucopia, took it, and got out of there. She spent the rest of the Games hiding in the fields and picking the tributes off one by one. I think she killed a total of nine."

"Eight," Ivy corrected. "I don't count the one who was already dying from a snakebite. I just put her out of her misery."

Sher smirked. "Nine, then. So Lordez was right. And you were what, Lordez, ten? Not even old enough to worry about being reaped yet. And you remember it that well."

"They sometimes show replays during later Games—"

"Which doesn't sound like something that anyone in their right mind would want to watch." He opened his eyes. "You'll do better in the Games if you stop hiding who you are, Lordez. You enjoy this. You're fascinated by it, and you always have been. Admit it, and you'll have more fun."

"That's despicable."

"Yes, it is. Humor me. What do you think this year's arena could be?"

Lordez thought for a moment. "Nobody really liked the desert arena; it was too bright all the time. So maybe something darker. Colder. The forest arena was good, but it all started to look the same after a while. So maybe it won't be just one sort of terrain – maybe a mixture."

"A variety," Sher agreed. "Good. Very good. And what would be the best way to survive in a variety of habitats? Besides turning into rattlesnakes."

Lordez cocked an eyebrow. "I'm guessing I shouldn't mention that rattlesnakes require a very specific—"

"Not the point!"

Lordez sighed. "I suppose you mean we should find a variety of animals … allies."

Sher nodded towards the tape of the reapings. "Let's see what we've got to choose from, shall we?"

Lordez cocked an eyebrow. "You say that like we'll be able to just pick whoever we want. What makes you think they would want us?"

Sher smiled. "The fact that you just said 'us' without even thinking about it."

She didn't seem to have an answer to that. Neither did Ivy. At last, their mentor nodded. "The Gamemakers want a good show. And you're ... entertaining. There are probably some other tributes who would realize that."

"Exactly," Sher agreed. He held out his hand.

Lordez hesitated a moment, but then shook it. "All right. Let's get to work."

Sher grinned, picking up the tape of the reapings. "Oh, not work. The game, Lordez, is on. Let's play."

* * *

**Aldo Retchwood, 16  
****District Twelve Male**

Either their mentor was completely delusional, or he was trying to get them killed.

"The key is to get to the Cornucopia first," Pardeck was saying. "Once you have a weapon, you have an advantage, regardless of your size. Now, of course, you want to grab the _right_ weapon. Do either of you have any experience with weapons of any sort?"

"I can use a sword!" Heloise volunteered immediately.

To Aldo's surprise, Pardeck didn't question that at all, or even think to ask _how_ she had learned to use a sword in District Twelve. "Excellent!" their mentor grinned. "Make sure you practice a bit in the training center, though – want to stay sharp. And if the other tributes see how good you are, they'll think twice before attacking you." He turned to Aldo. "And what about you?"

"I've used a pickaxe in the mines," Aldo said guardedly.

"Brilliant! If they don't have a pickaxe, go for something similar – a regular axe, a hammer, something of that sort. Try a few of them out during training, see what feels best. Then if you see it at the Cornucopia, go get it."

Aldo leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. "But what about the other tributes?"

"What about them?"

"Well, if we go in to grab weapons, we'll have to fight our way out."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure I'm up for that, really," Aldo admitted. They had just watched the other districts' reapings, and some of the tributes looked pretty strong.

Pardeck rolled his eyes. "Look, do you want to survive in the arena or not?"

"Of course."

"Then you need weapons. If you turn and run, eventually they'll come after you. Then they'll be armed, and you won't. You're going to have to fight eventually. Might as well find out right away whether you're up to the task. Go in, grab a weapon, and get out."

"What about food?" Heloise asked. "Should we grab food, too?"

Aldo cocked an eyebrow. Was the kid actually listening to this nutcase?

"If you can," Pardeck nodded. "But weapons aren't just good for fighting, you know. If you have a weapon, you can use it to hunt. So that's your first priority."

"Really?" Aldo asked skeptically. "What do you expect her to hunt with a sword? What's going to come close enough for me to be able to hunt it with an axe? Do you have any idea at all what you're talking about?"

Pardeck glared. "Look, young man, I have been a mentor for nine years now, and—"

"And every single one of your tributes has died!" Aldo pointed out. "Why should we listen to you? Did you give them the same advice?"

"Of course not. Not all of them were fighters like you."

"Fighters? Are you nuts? This girl is twelve!"

"And better with a sword than _you_!" Heloise cut in. "Your age doesn't matter in the arena; your attitude does."

"And an attitude like that will get you killed!" Aldo insisted, desperately wishing the girl would listen. "You charge in there, the only thing you're going to come out with is blood all over you."

"And you have a better plan?"

There was silence for a moment as they both watched him – his deluded mentor and over-eager partner. "Yeah," he nodded. "I have a better plan. Be patient. Stay away from the fighting. Find a part of the arena where no one wants to go. Then, once things have settled down a bit, go back to the Cornucopia and choose from what's left while no one else is there. There won't be as much to choose from, but it'll be a lot safer."

Pardeck shook his head. "There's nowhere safe in the arena; get that idea out of your head right now, boy. That sort of patience – waiting things out, looking for the right moment – it'll only get you killed by the people who decide to _make_ the right moment."

Heloise was nodding eagerly. Aldo shook his head, resigned. He wasn't going to change her mind – or Pardeck's. But that didn't mean he had to listen to them. Once he was in the arena, he was on his own.

And whatever Pardeck suggested, he intended to do the exact opposite.

* * *

"_For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."_


	18. Chariot Rides: A Sport and an End

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the bloodbath poll on my profile if you haven't done so already.

Thank you to all of you who included ideas for the chariots on your submission forms. I'm extremely grateful that I didn't have to come up with twelve different ideas. There were only two districts where neither submitter included an idea, and hopefully you won't be able to tell which ones I came up with myself.

* * *

**Chariot Rides  
****A Sport and an End**

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

Helius was putting a few final touches on a mutt when President Hyde walked in.

Technically, the mutt was ready, of course. It had been for days. Technically. But, aesthetically, Helius still wasn't satisfied. He didn't just want it to look fierce. He wanted it to look terrifying. He wanted the tributes to know what they had awoken the moment it showed itself, not to have to wait until it destroyed them.

"Helius, we have a problem." The president's voice was even more tired than normal. Helius was beginning to suspect that Hyde could use a good vacation.

Of course, he knew better than to suggest it. "What's the trouble, Mr. President?"

"Did you watch the reapings?"

Helius shook his head. "Never watch 'em."

Surprise crossed the president's face. "Why?"

"First impressions are important. I don't want my first impression of the tributes to be a moment when they're shocked and frightened, still tired and dirty and surrounded by all sorts of distractions. I want to see them when the Games have their full attention. That's when I can see what they're capable of."

Hyde nodded, even though Helius knew he didn't really understand. He and the president saw the Games differently. The president was more concerned with their true purpose: to keep the districts in line. It was up to Helius to pay attention to the details, to make the pieces of the puzzle fall correctly in place, to keep the pawns moving at the right rate.

"It seems a few of them were a little eager to show us what they're capable of," Hyde continued. "Two of them attacked the Peacekeepers at the reapings. And then one killed his mentor."

That got Helius' attention. "Which one? No, no, no, let me guess. It must have been Belonessa – the others have more sense. I told Nerond that she wasn't ready, but, no, he just had to go and retire."

Hyde shook his head. "There's no point in dwelling on what-ifs now. We just have to contain the damage. I trust you to do that."

Helius nodded. "So the boy from Nine, then. Who were the others?"

"The girl from Nine, as well, though I don't think she'll give you much trouble. She attacked the Peacekeepers, but it wasn't anything thought-out; she simply lost her head. Shouldn't be too hard to get her to do it again."

"Consider it done. And the other?"

"The girl from Two. Knocked out a Peacekeeper and tried to make a break for it."

Helius giggled excitedly. "Excellent! Ooh, this'll be fun. Did you have anything specific in mind for them, Mr. President? Sooner? Later? Quick? Slow?"

Hyde shook his head. "I'm not here to micromanage you, Helius. You do your job; I'll do mine. Things work out better that way – for everyone."

"As you wish," Helius grinned and returned to his mutt.

The president was about to leave, but curiosity got the better of him. "Okay, Helius, I'll bite. What's that?"

"This," Helius chuckled, "is something the tributes had better hope they don't awaken in the darkness beneath the mountains." He rubbed his hands together, then pushed a button so that the creature appeared life-size, towering over both him and the president. "What do you think?"

Hyde studied the mutt – a dark creature shrouded in flames, with wings that nearly spanned the length of the room and a mane of pure fire. After taking a moment to recover, the president chuckled. "I think you'd better be careful where you let that loose, Helius. Remember, the idea here is to make the tributes kill _each other_, not to wipe them all out with a … whatever this is."

Helius nodded. "Already taken care of. The creature has a very limited portion of the arena. Most of them probably won't even find it. But I just couldn't resist." He shrank the creature down to a more workable size and went back to fine-tuning it.

The president took that as his cue to leave. Helius didn't even notice. He was much too busy. A little less fire, perhaps – and a little more darkness. The creature needed both – both the fire and the night.

Both shadow and flame.

* * *

**Jade  
****Mentor, District One**

One of the perks of being a victor – aside from being alive, of course – was the front-row seats at the opening ceremonies. As the first of the chariots appeared at the far end of the square, Jade grinned.

Abstract and Angus each wore a white, skin-tight outfit that could be seen through the rest of their costume – a clear material designed to look like crystal. From each angle, the crystal gave off a different glow, acting as a prism. But, somehow, it seemed that the red always shone the brightest. Red for blood.

Jade clapped his hands excitedly along with the audience. Abstract was stone-faced, waving but refusing to enjoy herself. Angus, on the other hand, seemed to be playing up the annoying little kid act, waving frantically and practically jumping up and down. Jade was sure he heard a few "aww"s from the audience.

They had no idea.

* * *

**Vester  
****Mentor, District Two**

Vester wished his tributes would at least smile a little. He had been smiling the entire time during his own opening ceremonies – grinning like an idiot, excited for fresh blood. He had been a fool, of course. But the crowds had loved it.

Kiona and Equinox knew better. Their expressions matched their outfits – stone. Stone miners, to be exact. Their suits were marble-white, the helmets ebony-black. Each held a pickaxe studded with rocks and gems

Finally, Equinox waved a little, to the excitement of the crowd. Encouraged, the boy raised his pickax above his head and let out an almost crazed battle cry. The crowd roared. Kiona took a hint and raised her pickax, as well, but refused to resort to shouting.

Vester nodded. Good. The contrast would attract different groups of sponsors for each of them. He could work with that.

* * *

**Mayberry  
****Mentor, District Three**

Mayberry always felt a bit uncomfortable sitting with the other mentors. It was a reminder of why she was still here, mentoring: District Three was still missing a victor of its own. She, Aron, Belonessa, and Pardeck sat off to the side, not quite accepted into the crowd of victors.

At last, she spotted Tracer and Lina, standing as tall as they could in their chariot, dressed as old grandfather clocks, with their faces where the face of the clocks would be. Mayberry cocked an eyebrow, surprised. Usually, the stylists went with some newer form of technology, but there was something to be said for an appreciation of the technology of the past. Clock-like gears lined the outfit, turning in time with the chariot.

Tracer and Lina waved a little, as if trying to convince each other to be excited. Mayberry found it hard to blame them. Yes, they were here in the Capitol – which anyone should be excited about – but it wouldn't last. And, from the look of them, they knew it.

Mayberry's glance strayed to her fellow Capitol mentors. How long would they be here, the four of them, waiting for a victor? And who would be the first to leave?

* * *

**Mags  
****Mentor, District Four**

Mags reminded herself to thank her stylist – no, the tributes' stylist now – after the ceremonies were over. For the first couple of years, the tributes from Four had been dressed as fishermen. Or, worse, fish. Clarina had a better idea.

Mars and Ella were dressed in what some in the crowd might recognize as old naval officers' uniforms. Mars' was a deep blue. Ella's was a lighter, sky-blue and a vibrant sea-green. Mags smiled. Two colors. Just like the girl's eyes, which were more visible now after a haircut. Ella had seemed embarrassed by the trait when they had spoken on the train, but Mags knew what Clarina did – the crowd would remember it.

Apparently, Clarina had passed along a few tips, because Ella removed her hat – allowing them to see her face better – and waved it at the crowd. Neither of them was smiling, but maybe that was good; the uniforms gave off a more serious feel than the crowd was used to, and the tributes' expressions matched it perfectly.

Mags smiled for them. Despite all the attention on the tributes, some in the crowd were undoubtedly watching her, last year's victor. The new mentor. And she needed to look confident, proud of her tributes, because that was just one more little thing that could help them survive.

* * *

**Tania  
****Mentor, District Five**

Tania was never really sure what she was supposed to do during the ceremonies. Was she supposed to smile and be happy? Was she supposed to appear stoic and confident? What she really felt was fear – fear for her tributes now that they were finally at the Capitol. Now that at least one of them was that much closer to death.

But, for a moment, as Harakuise and Brie appeared, that fear vanished. They were each dressed in a skin-tight, black, metallic-looking suit, but that wasn't what caught Tania's attention. The crowd was leaning forward. Not a lot – just enough to be noticeable, as if drawn towards District Five's tributes.

Tania couldn't help smiling when she realized what it was: the suits were giving off a strong electromagnetic pull – just enough to give a slight tug on any metal. Watches. Bracelets. Necklaces. Pins. Anything metal that the crowd was wearing was now a magnet, drawing them closer to Harakuise and Brie, who looked thoroughly pleased by all the attention.

Tania felt a hand on her shoulder. Mags. "That's very good," the younger girl said with a smile. Tania nodded. It _was_ good. She just hoped it would be good enough to interest the sponsors.

* * *

**Aron  
****Mentor, District Six**

Aron nearly laughed when he saw that the chariot was decorated like a racecar. He was pretty sure no one had ever decorated the actual chariot before, but, apparently, there were no rules against it. The chariot had been painted a bright, canary-yellow. Maybe Prius had told her stylist about that old yellow roadster.

Prius was dressed as the racecar driver, her outfit streaked with bright colors and covered in logos. Beside her, Pike posed as the racecar's mechanic, but without the dirt and oil stains that would usually accompany the role. Instead, his silver uniform shone, as did the wrench and screwdriver he held up proudly.

Suddenly, Prius scooped the little boy up and placed him on her shoulders. Maybe she had realized how short he looked next to her. Maybe she wanted him to be able to see the crowd. Prius giggled, trying to keep her balance. Pike beamed, waving his screwdriver wildly in the air.

Aron felt a surge of pride as he watched the pair, both grinning, united not by bloodthirst or anger, but by a moment of pure fun. Just this once.

* * *

**Hazel  
****Mentor, District Seven**

Hazel couldn't stand the opening ceremonies. The idea of dressing kids up in silly costumes on the way to their deaths and pretending it was fun – it sickened her. But Arithrim had reminded her to try her best to have a little fun. To enjoy herself. It wasn't helping.

But at least they weren't dressed as trees. When Cahra and Sterling appeared, Hazel almost smiled. Almost. They were dressed as wood sprites – green tunics covered in fake leaves, brown leggings with a wooden pattern, and even wings, long and translucent, spreading behind them. Green feathered hats and pointy shoes completed the outfits, and each held a stick with a light shining from one end – some sort of magic wand.

Sterling lost no time making use of his "magic wand," pointing the lighted end at various people in the audience, then gasping as if he had managed to change them into something. Hazel smiled a little, wondering if he played the same game with his daughter. Cahra, however, was not amused when he "zapped" her, and broke her own wand in two over her knee.

Hazel chuckled a little, imagining the stylist's face when the wand came back in two pieces. Then she remembered how easily her tributes could come back home the same way, and her smile faded.

* * *

**Lander  
****Mentor, District Eight**

The outfits weren't important. They never were. Everyone with half a brain knew that the outfits were designed to fit the district, not the tributes. Luxury for One, fishing for Four, cars for Six, regardless of what any of the tributes actually did or acted like. What mattered wasn't the outfit – it was how the tributes acted during the parade.

So he wasn't surprised to see that Nicoline and Zione wore matching multi-colored outfits – a suit and a dress – splashed with squares of brightly-colored fabric. The colors were so bright, they almost hurt Lander's eyes, but he knew these Capitol types would eat it up. With their brightly-colored hair and skin, they could hardly complain that this was too extreme.

But what really pleased Lander was the way Zione and Nicoline stood next to each other, Zione with a hand placed protectively on Nicoline's shoulders, waving to the crowd with the other hand. Already the hero. Already the protector. And Nicoline played her part perfectly, glancing up at Zione every so often with genuine admiration, terrified of what was happening, but comforted by his presence.

Perfect.

* * *

**Nerond  
****Mentor, District Nine**

Nerond was excited to see the tributes for the first time, of course, but what he had heard about them pleased him even more. At the reaping, the girl had attacked the Peacekeepers. Later, the boy, unprovoked, had stabbed their mentor with a table knife. They each had fire. That was good.

So what caught his attention wasn't the outfits themselves. Those were expected – tan outfits with wheat stalks and feathers for decorations. What caught his eye was the wheat stalk that each of them held, crafted to resemble a weapon. Husk's was a spear, Antiquity's a bow.

The looks on their faces, as well, left no doubt that, if these were actual weapons instead of wheat, they would waste no time using them. The boy gripped the weapon tightly, his anger still barely contained. The girl held hers more casually, but her glare left no doubt that she could spring into action and use it at a moment's notice.

Nerond sat back in his chair, content. This was definitely his last year as a mentor – really, this time.

* * *

**Glenn  
****Mentor, District Ten**

District Ten's costumes were always stupid. They had been stupid during his Games, when they had been dressed as black-and-white spotted cows, and they had been stupid every year since. Glenn braced himself for the worst.

Sure enough, when the chariot came into view, Libby and Wulfric were dressed as pigs. At least, Glenn assumed they were supposed to be pigs, since there was no other reason for them to be wearing pink, skin-tight outfits with curly little tails. The stylists had even decided it would be a good idea to paint pink snouts on their faces and give them fake ears.

Wulfric was barely containing a scowl, but Libby looked completely mortified. Glenn couldn't exactly blame her, either – the outfit only made it more obvious how overweight she was, how out of shape. At least it managed to show Wulfric's muscles a little, but Libby looked completely ridiculous.

Then again, he had looked completely ridiculous in his outfit, too. He remembered the crowd laughing. He remembered wearing those stupid udders and feeling his face turn red. But, eventually, it had been over. It had passed. And this would, too. They just had to get through it.

* * *

**Ivy  
****Mentor, District Eleven**

Ivy wasn't sure exactly what they were supposed to be. But, then again, she wasn't really sure what to make of her tributes in general, so maybe that was the idea.

Sher and Lordez each wore an outfit completely made of brightly colored leaves, but much of their skin had been left bare, covered in multi-colored drawings. Each wore a crown of red and orange leaves. They were barefoot, with drawings laced up their legs to resemble sandals. They were holding hands, and, in the other hand, each held a scythe.

Both were studying the crowd, the brightly colored outfits of the Capitol folk, watching their faces, waiting for the right moment. Every so often, one or the other of them would lift their scythe and give a cheer, and the crowd would holler. Then Sher and Lordez would return to their positions, simply watching. Ivy wondered if there was a pattern to when they decided to cheer.

It didn't matter, of course. The impression it gave off was far more important – the impression that they, not the crowd, were in control of the moment, of what was taking place. It was an illusion, of course, but a powerful one, and, in the end, it was a lie that might save their lives.

* * *

**Pardeck  
****Mentor, District Twelve**

Everyone hated the coal miners' outfits. Everyone except the stylists, apparently, because, since the first time they had been used, the idea hadn't changed much. Give a tribute a skimpy black outfit and a helmet with a headlamp, and – ta-da! – miner! Sometimes they decided to put black "coal dust" on the tributes' faces for good measure.

This year was no exception. Heloise and Aldo were dressed all in black, their faces and hands given a sooty look. The crowd was already ignoring them. Perfect.

They were ignoring the crowd, as well. Heloise and Aldo stood simply facing the front of the chariot, eyes forward, expressionless. No waving. No smiling. Nothing that might attract attention or give any hint that they were enjoying themselves. These stupid ceremonies were just something they had to get through – nothing more.

Pardeck leaned back in his chair, trying not to look too pleased. Get through the ceremonies. Get through training. Then the real fun would begin.

* * *

**President Richmond Hyde**

Florum had a good point about watching the reapings. The tributes always looked so different. So young. Children. Now they were children no more. They were their district's representatives. Warriors. Killers.

He stood and addressed the tributes. All a formality, of course. All for the audience. The tributes couldn't care less about his words about honor and sacrifice. They knew there was nothing happy about his "Happy Hunger Games!" They knew that, for most of them, the odds were not – and never would be – in their favor.

But he said it, anyway, because that was what he was expected to say. His small part in the Games. After that, it was up to Florum. It was his show. His job to make sure the audience was happy, the districts terrified, the tributes dead.

Hyde's part in the Games was over.

* * *

"_We now love war and valour as things good in themselves, both a sport and an end; and though we still hold that a warrior should have more skills and knowledge than only the craft of weapons and slaying, we esteem a warrior, nonetheless, above men of other crafts."_


End file.
